In Cold Blood: The 51st Hunger Games
by SkyeBird128
Summary: "Fifty years it has been. Fifty years now the districts have paid dearly for the struggles of their ancestors. The blood of yesterday has left a stain that will stay with us forever." I don't own the Hunger Games.
1. Introduction

**Haymitch Abernathy - District 12 - Victor of the 50th Games**

* * *

Eleven months it has been now since I was lifted from a land of rolling green hills and sparkling brooks, and even longer since I last laid eyes on the girl who, albeit somewhat unwillingly, followed me to the edge of the world. Nearly a year it has been, but the fear has not left me. Each time I dare to shut my eyes for even a moment, it abounds tenfold, clawing at me with icy fingers, searing images I have tried hard to forget on the back of my eyelids.

Maysilee Donner, splayed on her back in a grassy field, screaming in pain as a flock of sickly pink birds dig into the mangled flesh that was once her stomach. My intestines, nearly spilling out from between my fingers, pain wracking my abdomen. The girl from District One, an axe buried deep in her head.

Only two weeks after I won, President Snow himself came to dine at my house in Victor's Village, which I shared with my mother and my little brother. I was more than a little suspicious, of course, but I could not refuse to host him. To my relief, the night passed without incident.

It wasn't until the next morning that I learned why he had journeyed to District Twelve.

When I awoke, I found my younger brother bedridden with a terrible cough and a fever of 104 degrees. My mother wasn't much better. I knew instantly that it was my fault, that President Snow was punishing me for my inadvertent stunt with the force field two weeks before. I knew it would not matter what I did. Whether or not I tried to heal them, if President Snow wanted them to die, they would die. It is the worst feeling in the world, knowing that you are the cause of a loved one's suffering, and knowing that there is nothing you can do but wait.

Still I tried to heal them. I summoned the district's doctor, but none of the medicine he provided had any effect on either of them. All I could do was feed them broth and sit by their bedsides, assuring them that they would be fine.

My brother died first. Twelve years and three days into his life, he fell into a labored sleep and did not awaken. I buried him alone, as by that point Mother was too weak to leave her bed for even a minute. The next morning, she was gone, too.

Their faces will haunt me forever. My mother, my brother, Maysilee, and each of the forty-seven children who entered the arena with me twelve months ago and never made it out. They will haunt me forever, every night for the rest of my life. I will never escape them.

Fifty years it has been. Fifty years now the districts have paid dearly for the struggles of their ancestors. The blood of yesterday has left a stain that will stay with us forever.

A knock at the door startles me. My hand goes instinctively to the knife I now keep strapped to my belt wherever I go. And then I remember: it's reaping day.

"Haymitch!" a high, familiar voice calls from the doorway. "It's Lucia! It's twelve-thirty on the dot! You haven't forgotten, have you?" Two more voices chime in with identical greetings.

I groan, not caring of the trio of Capitolites hears me. "I'm coming!" I call back, slowly getting to my feet and weaving through the expanse of hallways leading to the front door.

When I reach the door I pause, knowing that when I open it I will be assaulted by a barrage of Capitol chatter and whisked off to be dressed up for the reaping in an hour and a half. I can only delay the inevitable, though.

I unlock the door, and Lucia immediately pushes her way in, landing a messy kiss on my cheek and throwing her arm around me. I jerk backwards, my hand going to my cheek, which now bears a sticky blotch of Lucia's lipstick. The other Capitolites follow her inside, each luckily staying away from my now marred face.

Lucia is already chattering. "Oh, Haymitch, it's been so long! Did you miss us?" She flashes me a wide grin, revealing two rows of purple stained teeth, each bearing a different golden design.

"No."

Lucia just clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "Well, we'll be making up for all the lost time in the next few weeks. It's Games season! Aren't you excited?"

"No."

She pulls me into a room just off of the main hallway. Inside is a plain cherrywood desk and a wide mirror. I have not been inside in eleven months. Mother used to use it as a dressing room, and my brother did his homework here. I stumble backwards as we reach the threshold. This room bears too many memories.

Lucia grabs my arm impatiently. "Oh, come inside, Haymitch."

"I can't," I insist, tearing my arm from her grip. "Find somewhere else. Not here. I can't."

The Capitolite sighs. "And I suppose you have another room with a mirror of this size?" When I don't respond, she says, "Exactly." She grabs my arm again and propels me inside.

This chair has not been sat in since the day before my brother sickened eleven months ago. I remember the day as if it was yesterday. He had been irritated that on his twelfth birthday he was required to complete his homework. He had locked himself in this room, not coming out until the President arrived for dinner.

Behind me, Lucia lets out a small cry of indignation. She rubs the sole of her foot, wincing. My eyes glide to the floor, where a solitary pencil lies, the red one with the gray gripper that was my brother's favorite. Lying in the corner, as if thrown there in a fit of rage, is a narrow black binder.

My fists clench, all of my muscles stiffening. So many faces. So many memories. I can't do this. I can't.

I jump from the chair and hasten out of the room, running up the stairs three at a time. I slide into the closet of my room and dig my overgrown fingernails into my palms. The pain distracts me, and for a moment the faces fade. I breathe deeply, calming myself down.

And then they begin knocking at my door, asking me if I am all right, and I remember the reaping. Today two children will be chosen for the Games. It will be my responsibility to see one of them out alive. To replace their death with a lifetime of memories and nightmares.

Perhaps it will be better if they die. I do not want a child to go through what I go through, to be reminded night and day of the blood on their hands. There can be no winning the Games. Some survive, but there are no winners.

"Haymitch!" Lucia calls again from the door, now sounding more than a little irritated.

I cannot hide here forever. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and walk out into the waiting hands of the prep team.

* * *

**Tributes:**

District 1 Female: Chitrali Menison, 15 (Emi the Dark Kitten Prince)

District 1 Male: Thorin Arvin, 18 (threelittlemockingjays)

District 2 Female: Soma Grise, 16 (SPACE MAN OH SPACE MAN)

District 2 Male: Maxon Stark, 15 (FalknerBlue)

District 3 Female: Aria Kovaćić, 17 (IronManRidingaNimbus)

District 3 Male: Finian 'Finn' (Eugene) Lockhart, 15 (silentwolf111)

District 4 Female: Ember Wade, 17 (JGrayzz)

District 4 Male: Mateo Corrigan, 14 (bearclaw1212)

District 5 Female: Marina Dangora, 16 (candy95)

District 5 Male: Luthen Mire, 12 (SlightlyBlackSheep)

District 6 Female: Blaesa Sparc, 15 (xPoptartsx)

District 6 Male: Jackson Ford, 14 (DaughterofApollo7)

District 7 Female: Acacia Aspén, 18 (JoshEm)

District 7 Male: Levi Dornan, 17 (Remus98)

District 8 Female: Terrance "Terra" Rusk, 18 (Perksofbeingminho)

District 8 Male: Ralin Adano, 17 (JoshEm)

District 9 Female: Arable Tillage, 14 (Vhagor)

District 9 Male: Donny Ichor, 16 (grimbutnotalways)

District 10 Female: Channas Grayline, 16 (SlightlyBlackSheep)

District 10 Male: Jayke Rodriguez, 17 (sillymoose13)

District 11 Female: Sparrow Greene, 14 (Megan Hermione Lovegood)

District 11 Male: Birch McGrove, 12 (Perksofbeingminho)

District 12 Female: Faith Harbourough, 17 (TheOnlyPotato)

District 12 Male: Alai Corinth, 13 (threelittlemockingjays)

* * *

**A/N: This is my third SYOT. The form is on my profile. Submissions are open until 12:00 noon EST on Friday, March 13th. You can submit as many tributes as you'd like, but most likely I won't accept more than one per submitter. Please be as detailed as you can, especially in the personality section.**

**Note about reviews: I won't decide who dies solely on whether you review, but I'll be more likely to make your tribute the victor if I know you're reading. Also, reviews will give you sponsor points. More about that on my profile.**

**Please submit!**


	2. District 1 Reaping

**District 1**

**0900 CST**

* * *

**District 1 Female: Chitrali Menison, 15**

* * *

I am kneeling on a muddy plateau when I hear the great clock at the center of the district chime nine times. I pay it no heed. Fifteen minutes remain until the start of the reaping, and the square is but a single street away. It is about as pleasant as a morning in District One can get, and I intend to make the most of it.

Most others would not cherish this morning as I do. The sky is a stormy gray shade, and the pouring rain has transformed all unpaved ground into a field of mud. Most spent this morning penned inside their houses, and indeed that is why I am enjoying it so. Most days the district graveyard is full of citizens mourning their deceased loved ones. I know Florence does not appreciate their presence. She cannot, no matter how kindhearted a soul she was; they trample heedlessly over her grave and the wilting flowers placed so carefully atop it, caring only to reach a distant grave of their own.

I knew Florence for only three months before the disease claimed her. To this day we do not know exactly what it was. A week before our first reaping she grew sick, and I arrived in the square the morning of the reaping to the tearful, panicked announcement from her mother that she had lost the battle.

I did not cry. I do not cry, when I can help it. I merely stood there, frozen in shock and wondered how it could be true, that the most important person in my life was gone. I had known that I was not destined to live a happy life, but the day we met had marked the beginning of a new era for me. I knew her for only three months, but she is rooted deeper in my heart than any other to walk the planet.

"Three years to the day," I murmur, lightly tracing my finger through the soft mud. "I daresay you were lucky, Florence. Time passes, and here we are again. It's reaping day."

I lean forward, and my knees sink deeper into the mud. I am wearing only a beaten up t-shirt and camouflage pants, and I couldn't care less what state they are in for the reaping. I will stand atop the stage before the world, and they can say whatever they wish to say.

"I'm volunteering this year," I tell Florence. "Father will be furious. He wants me to volunteer more than anything else, you know that, but it's three years early, and I'm hardly of any use to him if I die." I smile grimly, anticipating the fury on his face as he storms up to berate me after the reaping. I will without a doubt receive quite a tongue lashing from him, but at least neither he nor Mother will be able to raise a hand to me. The Peacekeepers will not let them touch me. It is illegal to deliberately hurt or sabotage a tribute before the arena.

But they may try. When they grow angry, all reason is forgotten. If Mother has been to the bottle or the needle this morning, both of which are most probable, I am likely to receive a good deal of bruising before the sound draws the Peacekeepers in.

But the bruises will not slow me. They will be gone before I enter the arena. They may last through training, but I am well accustomed to training with arms and legs stained blue and black, often even crossed with scars.

Sometimes I wonder what Florence would say. She was always trying to turn my focus to anything other than my hard life at home. I may now finally be able to put that behind me, but then again, I _am_ entering the Games. Florence never supported that. We were only twelve when I met her, and she thought the passing years would dissuade me, but they have not.

I knead the cool mud with my knuckles. It slips between my fingers and rolls into my palm. A small rock grates against the soft flesh just below my little finger. I pull it loose and roll it between my fingers, wondering for how long it has been here. Perhaps it was among the small pebbles I brushed from Florence's covered corpse before they lowered her into the ground.

It must be nearly nine fifteen by now. The reaping never begins on time, but to arrive late is to risk imprisonment. I touch Florence's gravestone one last time, and get to my feet. I drag my hand carelessly across my knees, expelling some of the mud from the front of my pants. I cast a last forlorn look at the grave, then turn and slowly make my way over to the metal gate.

* * *

**District 1 Male: Thorin Arvin, 18**

* * *

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't left.

I was only six when my parents and I moved out of my Uncle Leam's house in Victor's Village with two tiny bundles that would one day grow to be Jem and Aven. I had been devastated. I loved my Uncle Leam, who had treated me as if I was his own child. In my eyes he was the strongest man in the world. I had always wanted siblings, and I already loved the twins, but I hated to leave the grand house I in which I had grown up.

But the move had affected Mother worse. She thrived off of comfort and wealth, of which her elder brother had both. We were well off as well, but it wasn't enough for Mother. She wanted Leam, she wanted the clean little village, she wanted the envious glances as she turned off the main road and walked under the great steel arch marking the entrance to Victor's Village.

I was still six when she started to murmur to me, calling me her little victor, saying I'd return the family to where we belonged. I was slightly nervous, of course, but I trusted Mother, and I was proud that she was placing so much faith in me. I was important. When I was seven she signed me up at the Academy, the most well known training program in the district. And I became her little warrior, training for her, that crown and that huge steel arch always in my mind.

It wasn't until I was nine that I truly realized how she was using me. By then it was too late to turn off my path. I could not abandon my sword. It had become part of me, even after only two years. But my relationship with my father's wife was forever shattered. She became Teal then, merely another soul with whom I shared a house.

Perhaps that is why I dismiss her so now. I enter our house and slip off my muddy boots. I pull back the hood of my gray rain jacket and carefully place my sword in the closet. Teal hears me enter, as usual, and comes to the door, smiling brightly.

"Thorin!" she says enthusiastically. "Have you been training all morning?" At my curt nod, she continues, "I can't imagine there would be many others at the center, not in this weather. I'm glad you went. One last day may give you the leg up that will make all the difference."

I start past her, but she grabs my arm. "There are pancakes. Your favorite kind, with the blueberries."

I shake her grip off and continue down the hall. At the end I turn right into the dining room. Jem and Aven are sitting at the table, digging into their pancakes. The twins are practically identical, though they are of different genders; they wear their hair the same way, loose and hanging down to their shoulders, each sporting an androgynous haircut. They share their wardrobe as well, so one cannot identify them by examining their raiment.

But I have no trouble telling them apart. The twin on the right side of the table is talking in a loud, clear voice. When I enter she is speaking scathingly of the job polishing gems her mother signed her up for, but when she sees me she changes courses on a dime.

"There you are!" Aven says with a wide grin. "Mother about tore the house down when she realized you were gone. Forgot there wouldn't be any time in the afternoon to train. I told her that, and you should have seen how quickly her mood changed."

I give her a wry smile and open the cupboard in which we keep the cereal. I am reaching for the large brown box when Jem speaks.

"Thorin." I turn around, and he nods at the pile of blue speckled pancakes on the counter. "It was me who made them."

I nod in thanks and reach for the platter of pancakes. I am grateful for the change; we have cereal nearly every morning, as it is inexpensive and easy to serve, and after eighteen years I am understandably sick of it. But sometimes on special occasions Teal, or better yet, Jem, will cook something, a treat for the family. Mother used to be an excellent cook, but in recent years her food has tasted sour and vile.

Aven is speaking again. "You know, you're the only reason Jem here isn't terrified beyond measure," she says, casting her brother a teasing grin.

"I'm scared for _you_," Jem says, glancing up at me. "I know how much you've trained, but...Thorin, only one comes out, and that one is never the same."

Jem looks pleadingly at me, but I know he does not expect to change the course of my heart. I have trained for eleven years, and one opinion means nothing to me. An entire district of adversaries could not turn me off course. Jem and Father both have persistently brought up the effects of the Games over the years, but neither has ever had any luck dissuading me. But he has to try, else he will never forgive himself, and that I understand.

I bring my plate to the sink and sponge it down, running through today's proceedings in my mind. The escort will draw a slip from the great glass bowl and read it aloud. As soon as the last syllable of the name as left her lips I will step into the aisle separating the eligible males from the females and call out those two words. And when that action is completed and I stand beside the escort. I will have reserved myself a spot in this year's competition. It will all be so simple.

I turn back to Jem and Aven, a confident smile on my face. "See you at the reaping."

* * *

**The Reaping**

**0915 hours**

* * *

**District 1 Female: Chitrali Menison, 15**

* * *

It is exactly nine fifteen when I join the long line of adolescents signing in for the reaping. I am behind a group of several small boys. It is not their stature but the way they whisper nervously amongst themselves that tells me it is their first reaping. There will almost certainly be a male volunteer, that they know, but the unprepared cannot help but worry.

I study the Capitolite at the desk. She will not remember me. I will be just another face, one of thousands that will pass her by this morning. Perhaps she is wondering who the contestant will be. She knows that two of the souls admitted into the square will soon be leaving on the same train on which she herself entered the district.

When I enter the square, I find my section and search the crowd for familiar faces. I find Mother and Father almost instantly. Our eyes meet and I turn away, a small smile playing on my lips. Oh, this will hit them hard.

On the stage erected at the front of the square is a long line of chairs. District One's numerous victors sit on the left. To their right sits our district's Capitol escort, Ginny, a short, squat woman with artificial yellow hair. I smirk when I see her, as I always do when laying eyes on a Capitolite. Surely they realize how ridiculous they look. Surely they do not wonder why we love so to imitate their silly accent so.

On the very right sits the Mayor, a man of medium stature with a potbelly the likes of which I have seen only in the Capitol. As I watch him, he checks his wristwatch and laboringly gets to his feet. He saunters over to the microphone and clears his voice loudly. The square is silent in moments.

"Welcome to the reaping for the fifty-first annual Hunger Games," the Mayor says. Several cheers emanate from the crowd below him. He waits until they die out before continuing, "We had quite a Quell last year, as I'm sure most of you remember. We nearly took the crown. Perhaps we will have better luck this year. Now, I know you are eager to learn who this year's competitors will be, but first I shall remind you of the devastation upon which the Games were created..."

I tune him out, as I do every year. There is not a soul in this square who does not know the story of the disasters and world war that wreaked havoc upon the world of the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries, how Panem rose from the ashes of North America. Not a soul above the age of eleven or twelve does not know the Treaty of Treason by heart, down to the word.

I shift impatiently from foot to foot. Never before has the Mayor's pre-reaping speech seemed so long. The others in my section are growing impatient as well. They stifle yawns and crane their necks to glance at others far across the square. I resist the urge to find Mother and Father again. There will be plenty of time for smug looks later.

After what feels like an eternity, the Mayor finally steps back with a slight bow and allows Ginny to take the stage.

"Hello, District One!" the Capitolite says, grinning fondly at the ranks of teenagers standing before her. "Here we are, ready for another breathtaking Games, I see. As your Mayor said, we came ever so close last year, but this year it'll be a District One native with a crown on his head, am I right?"

The crowd cheers in response. I rock back and forth on my heels, twisting the hem of my shirt. She is taking her sweet time, and on purpose, I vow.

"And now, for the moment you all have been waiting for," Ginny says, leaning forward until her lips are nearly touching the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to select the two lucky teenagers who will enter the arena this year and bring pride to District One!"

The crowd cheers again. Ginny steps away from the microphone and approaches one of the two great glass bowls. It is nearly as tall as she, filled with thousands of small white slips of paper. _Chitrali Menison_ is carelessly scrawled on four of those slips. But the numbers matter not.

Ginny reaches into the bowl and swirls her long, decorated nails through the sea of paper. After several long seconds, she reaches deep into the pile like a bird diving for its prey and draws out a single solitary slip. She returns to the microphone and meticulously unfolds it, and when I am thinking that at last she cannot possibly stall any more, she glances up and sweeps a long stare out across the square, a smile spreading slowly across her face. And then at last she calls out the name.

* * *

**District 1 Male: Thorin Arvin, 18**

* * *

I do not recognize the name, and its owner does not step out of her section. I wait for the inevitable volunteer, and I am not disappointed; hardly five seconds have passed when two eager voices pierce the air in rapid succession. The first pushes forth from the fifteen-year-olds' section, to my surprise; we rarely have volunteers under seventeen or eighteen. The girl is already leaping up the steps to the stage when the second volunteer emerges from the eighteen-year-old section. This one I know: Golden, a deadly fighter I have trained alongside nearly every day since I was seven.

The crowd murmurs in confusion. It is not uncommon to have two volunteers, a confident lone eighteen-year-old along with the standard volunteer chosen by the Academy, but surely no one would be so foolish as to volunteer at the tender age of fifteen, especially without Academy-grade training.

Someone touches my arm. It's a thin, dark-skinned boy about my height. Teyim. "Who's that?" he murmurs, frowning up at the stage.

"No idea," I say.

Golden has joined her younger competitor on the stage. She wears a look of annoyed confusion, a stark contrast to the amused, smug pleasure the fifteen-year-old is radiating.

"Chitrali Menison," the young volunteer says into the microphone. She grins at the older girl standing at the corner of the stage. "I'm afraid you're out of luck," she says gleefully.

Golden does not move. Her annoyance now replaced with anger, she starts towards Chitrali. The fifteen-year-old doesn't so much as flinch, though the older girl has a good half of a foot on her in height. I find myself smiling despite myself. Golden has a fearful temper, and she never forgets a grudge.

Ginny steps between the two teenagers, an amusing combination of bewilderment and excitement on her face. "Now, now," she says to Golden, "Chit...Chitrali - is that right, dear? Chitrali got here first, fair and square. You can have your chance another time!" She puts her hand on Golden's shoulder and escorts her down the steps. The eighteen-year-old knows not to resist, but she shoots Chitrali a look of pure loathing.

On the stage, Chitrali is smirking. However, her eyes are not on the furious eighteen-year-old but on someone in the crowd, I cannot see whom.

Ginny returns to the microphone. "Well, that was exciting, wasn't it?" she says enthusiastically. "Now, for the males." She selects the second slip much quicker than the first and returns to the microphone. "Sequin Al - "

"I volunteer!" I yell. The crowd parts instantly. Someone pats my shoulder, probably Teyim. I stride up to the stage and join Ginny and Chitrali.

"Excellent, another volunteer!" the escort enthuses. "Would you mind giving us your name?"

"Thorin Arvin," I say. I step back then and clasp my hands behind my back, surveying the crowd. I find Jem and Aven in the twelve-year-olds' section near the back of the square. Aven is grinning at me, but Jem does not meet my gaze. He moves his hand across his cheek, as if wiping off a tear, and a sudden sadness fills me. These next few weeks will be torturous for him.

I glance over at the auburn-haired girl who will join me in the arena in but a few days. She meets my gaze, her gray-green eyes glittering with determination and challenge.

Ginny rests a hand on each of our shoulders. "Ladies and gentlemen, this year's tributes- Chitrali Menison and Thorin Arvin!"

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked it. I know it took me a while to update. Sorry about that. I've been pretty busy lately.**

**How was my writing? **

**What did you think of each tribute? How do you think they will do in the arena?**

**Which tribute did you like better? **

**Thanks for reading and please review!**


	3. District 2 Reaping

**District 2**

**The Academy**

**0900 hours Capitol Standard Time**

* * *

**District 2 Female: Soma Grise, 16**

* * *

The vast training gym is silent but for the clangs of metal on metal and the constant thumps of blades against targets. All children are excused from school, and all adults and older teenagers from their jobs. It is the morning of the reaping, and many look to take advantage of the last few hours before the names are drawn.

In the corner of the gym farthest from the doors, a straw dummy balances precariously on a base crafted of old cherrywood. It is adorned with a breastplate and a helmet, and an oversized pair of gray pants for effect. Several tufts of straw poke out from the chink in the armor at its neck, giving it an almost humorous appearance.

Soma Grise stands before a long cart of knives and short swords, her eyebrows knit broodingly. After some contemplation, she selects a weapon of medium length with a bronze hilt and a gleaming silver blade, and removes it from the cart with the utmost care. She turns then to face the dummy, her light green eyes narrowed in concentration. It is clear from the hatred in her eyes that in her mind she sees not a harmless straw dummy but a child, a tribute, an enemy in full armor.

For several long seconds Soma circles the dummy, poised like a cat ready to pounce. She tenses suddenly, halting in her tracks, raising her sword. And then quick as a viper she launches herself towards the dummy, and the battle begins.

Soma easily dismantles the figure, lopping off one arm, then the other, her sword cutting through the straw as if it were nothing more than butter. The intensity of her glare does not diminish in the slightest until the dummy lies at her feet, reduced to little more than a pile of straw, metal and faded gray fabric. When finally she deems the dummy defeated, she bends down and removes a solitary strand of straw from below the corpse's breastplate. She regards it with disdain, and then crumples it in her fist and casts it aside.

Soma brushes the pile of straw to the side with her foot and turns to the wall at which countless more soft dummies are stacked. She has not yet set a foot towards it when someone calls her name.

"Soma."

She turns. It's one of the trainers, one she recognizes but cannot place a name to. He stands by the rack of weapons, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"What?" the sixteen-year-old says bluntly, her eyes flashing in annoyance. She does not bother to hide her irritation. She had planned to return home at ten after nine to change for the reaping, and possibly to grab an apple or a piece of toast. Were she not interrupted perhaps she would have had time for one last dummy.

"Your father called in," the trainer says. "Says you're not to leave until nine twenty."

Soma stares at him. "That's ten minutes before the reaping starts."

The trainer shrugs. "That's what I told him. He said it was imperative you got these last few minutes in. The gym will be shutting down around then - we have to get to the square as well. You'll probably have the place to yourself near the end." Before Soma can respond, he turns on his heel and strides away, weaving between the trainers.

Soma curses under her breath, curling her fingers into a fist. She has no choice but to obey her father's orders; should she choose to disobey he would without a doubt remove his rawhide whip from its hook above the kitchen counter. It has been nearly three weeks since she last felt its sting, and she has no desire to enter the arena with its marks upon her back. To obey him is to accept his ownership of her, but she has no choice in the matter. She has never had a choice.

Soma starts towards the wall and drags a second dummy into the open, this time selecting a short knife with a wicked serrated edge with which to fight it. She channels her fury and contempt into every slash of her sword, into every strike. When the dummy has been defeated, she works her way through a third. Only then does she look up and survey the gym.

Of the two dozen others who had been training alongside her only minutes before, not one remains. In her concentration she had not noticed that the clashes of metal had ceased, nor the rattle as weapons were placed in their racks. A wave of surprise rolls over her, along with a good deal of panic. What if she is late? What if the Peacekeepers arrest her?

No, Soma reasons, she cannot be late. She has demolished only two dummies since the trainer gave her her father's warning. Surely it is not yet past nine twenty.

But she does not dare to linger any longer. She hastily places the knife on the rack and sprints towards the doors on the opposite side of the gym, dodging trays of weapons and leaping over fallen arrows. She shoulders the door open and races down the deserted halls. Not for the first time she is glad of the proximity of her house to both the town training center and the district square. She will have to change into something clean; she cannot go to the reaping in her sweaty, grimy years-old training clothes. If she had lived not in the heart of the district but one of Two's many villages, she would have been far too late.

Soma exits the training center and tears down the street, her heart pounding as much with excitement as with exertion. Today is the day she has been preparing for for countless years. After today she will be not the robot who has spent hours each day in the Academy since first she could walk, but Soma Grise, contestant in the fifty-first Hunger Games.

Today she will make history.

* * *

**District 2 Male: Maxon Stark, 15**

* * *

I am awake long before the sky begins to lighten, as always I am. During the day day I train and fight, and every night the battle moves inside me. I am exhausted, and want so terribly to sleep, but I cannot sleep. If I drift out of consciousness, he will kill me. He will kill me, just as he did my mother.

It came as a birthday present. Father roused me early the day I turned five and led me down to the basement, Mother close behind me. In the basement he pushed several large boxes aside to reveal a door, one I had never seen before. Beyond the door was a staircase spiraling down to a large room stocked with weapons. My own personal training center.

Mother was horrified. I can't remember exactly the words she screamed, but they were dirty, panicked, horrified. Father sent me to my room, promising to show me how the weapons worked later. But he did not. I waited in my room for the entire day, but he did not come.

The next morning, I seeked him out myself. I found him at the dining table, working his way through a large plateful of scrambled eggs and toast, as unconcerned as on any other morning, but much more content. Behind him was a large trash bag that reeked of something I could not identify, a scent that nearly made me puke.

He had killed her. And I have not been able to comfortably sleep since.

I pull the curtain of my window to the side. A thin sliver of light has appeared on the horizon, casting long shadows over the streets of Victor's Village. In the distance is the Town, which consists of little more than the train center, the Justice Building, the Mayor's house, the Peacekeepers' Headquarters, the Communications Center and a small smattering of stores and houses. The Town itself is home to only a few hundred people; the majority of the district's citizens live in one of the district's many small villages.

I release the curtain and fall back onto my pillow with a sigh. This will be my last night in this bed. Tonight I will be on the train, moving at nearly two hundred miles per hour away from this district, away from Father.

Father will not expect such a move, I am certain of it. He expects me to train for another three years before stepping forward to claim a spot in the Hunger Games. But he has ever been impatient, and he may very well be pleased with my choice. But it matters not what he says. I am escaping him at last, and that is all I care about.

Suddenly I hear soft footsteps outside my door. I recognize it as my father's careful tread, the one he sometimes makes when attempting to be quiet. The doorknob creaks slightly as it begins to turn.

I sit up, my heart pounding, my hand going instinctively to the sword I keep beside my bed. Perhaps he now he carrying one just like it. Perhaps he has slipped once again, the insanity the Games left in him returning once more. Perhaps he has deemed me not worth the trouble of housing and training, his own personal gladiator.

The door opens. A dark figure is framed in the doorway, tall and menacing. I try to get out of bed but my legs are frozen in place. But still I lift my sword, vowing that if Father wants to dispose of me I will not go down without a fight.

Suddenly the room is flooded with light. On instinct I fling up my spare hand to cover my eyes.

"Light scares you, does it?" Father drawls disdainfully. "We shall needs work on that. But for now, up you get. It is nearly six."

I ease my eyes open and stare up at the large figure looming over me. Father is carrying no visible weapon, but I am sure he has one on him. A knife up his sleeve, perhaps, or tucked at his waist. Just the possibility keeps me from putting aside my sword.

"I expect you downstairs in ten minutes." With that, Father turns on his heel and stalks away, shutting the door none too gently behind him.

I mutter a few choice words under my breath and slowly extract myself from my bed. The night had crawled past at an unbelievably slow pace, but somehow it now seems so much earlier than most mornings. But I know it will be my last morning in this forsaken place, and that reassurance gives me the energy to dress and drag myself downstairs.

When I pass by the kitchen, Father is leaning against the counter, chewing slowly on a piece of toast. His hazel eyes are fixed on the wall beside the northern window, where he has mounted a diverse array of weaponry. Hanging from metal pegs are two knives with vicious serrated edges, a menacing spiked mace, a typical sword, a spear, a pair of shurikens, and my favorite: a samurai sword, my father called it the first time I picked it up.

For a minute I just watch him, mournfully noting the dangerous gleam in his eyes as he regards the weapons. Then I turn and pad silently over to the staircase descending to the basement.

The basement is large, with a low ceiling and bare concrete walls. It is packed with everything from old crates to clothes to dust-covered pictures. And in the corner is the door I know so well, its bronze knob gleaming from use. I rest my hand on the doorknob for a long moment before yanking the door open and breathing in the familiar musty scent of the training room. I start down the steps, all twelve of them, and enter my father's sanctuary.

The training room is truly a grand place. The walls are lined with weapons of every variety, as well as targets and dummies. On the far side of the gym is a climbing wall, and in front of it an obstacle course that never fails to leave me breathless when I attempt it.

And indeed, when now I work my way through it, leaping over haphazardly stacked crates and rolling under long bars that emerge from the walls, I am left panting and heaving. After two more runs through the obstacle course I slide my favorite samurai sword from its place atop the tray of swords.

In my mind's eye an opponent appears before me. It is a boy about my age, dressed in the garb worn by the tributes of last year's Quarter Quell. He holds a lance in one hand, a long knife in the other. He will be a fierce opponent, but I know I can take him.

He strikes first, lashing out towards me with his lance, but I parry easily, and give forth a strike of my own, which he dodges.

After several minutes of sparring, I pull my move. My opponent swings his knife towards my head. I duck under his blade and whirl around him, and shove my sword through his ribs. He collapses instantly, blood pouring from the wound, gushing out onto the floor, staining the dusty wood red. I step back and look away, and when I look back he is gone, and again I am alone.

I ease off slightly for the next few hours. Today is the reaping, and I do not wish to be exhausted. The show shall begin today, and I cannot be sluggish for it. And indeed I would rather spend these last few hours in my room, or out on the streets of the district, but Father would not allow that.

But no matter. I shall be free of him soon enough.

* * *

**District 2 Female: Soma Grise, 16**

* * *

It is nine thirty-two when I arrive at the end of the dwindling line leading into the square. I had wished to go directly from the Academy to the gym, training clothes be damned, but Father had insisted that I make the best first impression I could when I step up to the stage. Mother had laid a blue sundress from her own closet on my bed, which had certainly made the transition quicker, but still I am late.

But the reaping never begins on time. Two is one of the larger districts, and our citizens are spread out over more than a dozen villages spotting the mountains. All will never be able to fit in the small square, let alone all sign into the reaping by the time the long hand of the great clock mounted on the Justice Building hangs directly over the six.

And indeed it is another several minutes before the registration desk is closed and the great gates at the entrances to the square swing closed. Finally the Mayor takes the stage and the crowd quiets. It is time.

As the Mayor drones his way through the Treaty of Treason, I observe the other eligible tributes. I am cordoned off into a section with all the other sixteen-year-old girls in the district. Our numbers always surprise me; indeed, the fourteen sections take up nearly the entire square, with the majority of spectators watching the proceedings on large screens in the nearby streets.

At the back of the square are the youngest eligibles, the twelve-year-olds. I am sure many of them frequent the Academy, but I recognize none of their faces; I am trained not to linger on the faces of others but to categorize all others as threats, as my competition. Many a child's fear and apprehension is betrayed by red eyes, and not for the first time I wonder if anyone in this year's croppings will resemble them.

The teenagers standing alongside me seem less fragile. They can say with considerable confidence that it will not be them in the arena this year, and that if it is they will stand a decent chance. Most stare up at the Mayor or around the square with a disconnected boredom, but I catch sidelong glances from more than a few. They know the Academy has recommended me to volunteer, though I am only sixteen. They know what I am bred to be.

I do not know most of their names. Indeed, I doubt I could place more than a few. Father never let me go to school; he homeschooled me, and taught me only what I absolutely needed to know. Reading. Basic history and mathematics. And above all else, fighting.

But there is one of them I do know, and she now stands only a few meters to my right: Harriet, a girl I used to know.

I was seven when we first met. She lived in the house directly beside mine, and oftentimes I sneaked out to visit her. My father had done everything he could to isolate me from others my age, and to speak to a real, live, breathing seven-year-old was almost magical.

I was eight when Father found out. He padlocked all the doors and would not let me out without his direct supervision. Some of the last few dredges of my freedom disappeared that day. So much has changed since, but it is clear from the bright smile that Harriet now sends my way that she does not realize this. She does not know what I have become. Still she sees me as the little girl she knew all those years ago.

Marian has taken the stage. The red-haired lady has been our district's escort for well over a decade now, and indeed I cannot remember a reaping without her drawing the slips. The years have not treated her kindly, a fact which she tries to cover up under layers upon layers of makeup, which to be perfectly honest does not suit her either.

"Thank you for your wonderful recitation, Mayor...Mayor," Marian says cheerfully, her face taking on a slightly embarrassed expression as her sentence concludes. "It was a recitation, was it not? You were reading, but that really shouldn't matter, hmm? _Recitation_ sounds so much more proper." She grins widely. "I must say, it's great to see you all again! I've been looking forward to this ever since the last Games ended - not quite in our favor, but this year we'll change things, mm?"

The crowd begins to murmur again. People shift restlessly, casting irritated glances at the Capitolite. Surely there is some diversity in personality in the Capitol. But then why does the President always choose such representatives to serve as the districts' escorts?

"Now, for the drawings," Marian says, carefully pulling back her sleeves from her wrists. "Ladies first, yes?"

The Capitolite walks over to the glass bowl on the left with small, teetering steps. I notice for the first time her shoes. They are a dark red hue and sport glass heels that must exceed five inches in length. How she walks in them I cannot say, but somehow she manages.

Marian plucks a slip from the top of the pile and returns to the microphone. She unfolds the paper and reads out, "Sylica Davis!"

"I volunteer!" I shout. The crowd parts immediately, and I walk through the staring teenagers into the aisle and make my way to the stage. "Soma Grise," I say into the microphone.

* * *

**District 2 Male: Maxon Stark, 15**

* * *

As the Mayor drones on, I slip a hand into the pocket of my jeans. It takes me a minute to find it, and when I finally grasp it the point digs into the fleshy pad of my thumb. I ignore the sharp stab of pain and wrap my fingers around the one item from home that I will bring with me into the arena.

Mother was quite a collector. In the closet next to my room she kept several jars full of little trinkets, from outdated little black chips she said once held data for computers to the little gemstones and rings she said people once embedded in their earlobes. I used to love going through them with her, listening to her as she told me about each little artifact. Each story seemed a tall tale to me. How could a little chip contain _data,_ whatever that was? Whyever would people make holes in their ears through which to weave a golden ring? But I loved Mother and her trinkets, so I was content to listen nonetheless.

After Mother died, I never saw her beloved jars again. I assume Father disposed of them; he had always been scornful of her collections. But still I have one memento of Mother and her jars, a pin she gave me long ago. It is old, plastic and plain to those who glance from afar, but to my eyes it is beautiful. A peace sign is emblazoned on its front, against a background of swirling psychedelic colors. Sometimes I think I can see Mother's face in it, her kindly hazel eyes looking up at me, reminding me that I am strong, that I will get through this.

Father does not know, and I hate to think of what he would do should he find out.

I roll the pin between my fingers, feeling my eyes glaze over slightly as I stare up at the stage. The Mayor is still talking, his voice laced with boredom and resignation. I am sure he hates this as much as the rest of us, if not more. We can zone out, but he must read the entire Treaty of Treason, all twelve pages of it. And surely the reaping that will follow will not be as entertaining for him as for many of us; his children are not yet of reaping age.

The long minutes crawl by. Finally, the Mayor's speech grinds to a halt. He gathers his papers and retreats back to his seat beside the row of victors, and the district's Capitol escort teeters up to the microphone on shoes with heels so long I cannot imagine how she is not in agony.

At first Marian only speaks to the Mayor, blundering mindlessly along with her typical Capitolite attitude. Finally she turns away from the Mayor and grasps the microphone in her long fingers.

"Now for the drawings," she says, rolling up her sleeves. "Ladies first, yes?"

I recognize the name she calls; it is the name of an eighteen-year-old I see often on the days when Father permits me to go to the district training center to train. I am not enrolled in the Academy, but I had heard Sylica was high on the list to volunteer.

But not the highest.

"I volunteer!" someone shouts. Her voice is low and grating, and lacks the barely suppressed excitement usually contained in those two words.

The sixteen-year-old section parts, and a girl strides into the aisle. She too I recognize from the training center. Each time I go there she is there, slamming knives into targets and disassembling dummies with remarkable speed and prowess. She has hair so light it is nearly translucent, and icy green eyes that she sweeps over the crowd, daring anyone else to step up to challenge her.

No one does.

When she reaches the stage she ignores the escort entirely, stepping up to the microphone. "Soma Grise," she announces.

"A volunteer! How exciting!" Marian says, as if she has not received at least one volunteer at nearly every Career reaping she has attended in her many years as an escort. "Excellent to have you, Soma!" She extends her hand towards Soma, but the teenager does not so much as acknowledge her, instead turning her gaze between the many cameras.

Marian frowns in disapproval, but does not press the matter. Instead she turns back to the microphone and says, "Now, for our male contestant..."

She walks carefully to the second bowl and quickly swipes up a slip from near the edge. She returns to the microphone and reads out the second name, mangling the vowels slightly with her strange accent. The crowd titters slightly, but their amusement is not solely because of the mispronunciation: the chosen tribute is the eighteen-year-old the Academy selected to volunteer this year.

The teenager steps out of his section, looking less than pleased. There is an honor to volunteering, an honor that is not found when you are reaped.

And here is where I come in. I extract my hand from my pocket and shout, "I volunteer!" I push my way out of my section, thinking too late that I should have stood closer to the aisle.

The eighteen-year-old halts in his tracks. I almost laugh when I see the confused expression on his face. He quite possibly does not realize what is happening. He probably never bothered to contemplate the possibility of another also deciding it was his year to enter the Games. The Academy chooses their volunteers for their physical capability, not their intelligence.

"No," the eighteen-year-old says, his brow crinkling as I near him. "It's me. Go back."

I only smile as I pass him. The rule clearly states that if a volunteer wishes to take the place of a reaped tribute, he or she may do so. The stance of the reaped eligible does not matter.

"Excellent, another volunteer!" Marian says enthusiastically when I reach her side. "What's your name?"

"Maxon," I say, leaning closer to the microphone. "Maxon Stark."

Marian grins. "Excellent! Two volunteers! What an amazing year this will be!"

She clasps both of our shoulder and continues to congratulate us, but I do not hear her words. My eyes are fixed on the screen at the back of the square, on the line of victors sitting behind us. Near the center of the line is a man with jet black hair and gold-flecked hazel eyes that mirror my own. He smiles at me, but his smile is not one of fatherly love but of pride and possession.

How could I have been so blind? Of course if I volunteer Father will step up to be my mentor. He will be with me every step of the way, even in the arena. No, I will not escape him, not until I die. I feel his eyes boring into my back as he smiles that awful smile.

Because I am _his_ tribute. And I will be his victor.

* * *

**A/N: I'm on spring break, and I'm going on vacation, so I won't have much time to write this upcoming week. The next update probably won't be for another few weeks. Anyways, some questions:**

**How was my writing?**

**What did you think of the tributes?**

** Which tribute did you like better? **


	4. District 3 Reaping

**District 3**

**0900 hours Eastern Standard Time**

* * *

**District 3 Female: Aria Kovaćić, 17**

* * *

_In my dream I kneel on a high bough of a tree, just below the canopy of the forest. In my hands I hold a crossbow fashioned from a deep red wood. Far below me is a small figure half hidden in the shadow of the very tree in which I sit. As I watch, the figure swings onto the lowest branch. A thin beam of sunlight weaving through the trees illuminates its face briefly, and I see that it is a boy several years younger than me, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. _

_The boy continues to climb. I force myself to stay calm. With trembling fingers I slide a steel tipped bolt into position and aim the crossbow at the ascending figure. Within moments the crosshairs are dancing over his face, which is now cast again into shadow. For a moment I hesitate. He is only a child. He did not ask to come here any more than I did. _

_But I know what I must do. _

_I pull the trigger. My aim is true, and the bolt embeds deep inside his forehead. The boy falls from the tree with a scream of agony. He hits the ground head first. His necks snaps on impact, and a distant cannon sounds. _

_For a moment I only stare at the body splayed out on the ground. Then I tear my gaze away and climb even higher, keeping the crossbow tucked securely under my arm. The hovercraft will appear momentarily to pick up the boy's body, and it may attract others to the area to pick off whoever killed him. _

_And indeed it does. Less than a minute after the hovercraft flickers out of sight, I hear the sound of approaching footsteps. And there they are: the Careers, three of the most fearsome tributes in the ring. They search the area, talking loudly amongst themselves. I do not dare to move a muscle. Between the three of them they carry two bows. I might be able to take out one of them, but before I could get on to the second an arrow would be sure to find its mark in my head. If they see me, I am dead. _

My heart is still pounding when I awaken. Adrenaline pulses through my veins, the paralyzing fear of the arena still upon me. It is several seconds before I take in the familiar lamp beside my bed, the pictures tacked to the wall to my right. It was just a dream; I am at home, I am safe.

But then I remember what day it is, and the fear returns. Today is the reaping. I only have six entries, as I have taken no tesserae, but what should one of those six be chosen?

In the weeks before each reaping, my sleep is always plagued with nightmares. For this I blame Victoire, my aunt, who is always ready with a story from her Games to whisper over the fire after the sun creeps down the horizon. Her stories are terrifying, but somehow I can never bring myself to withdraw from the room, nor even to look away from her haunted eyes. They always take on a singular gleam when she speaks of her Games, though it has been nearly a decade, and I know that the years will do little to dull the memories.

I pull myself out of bed and draw aside the curtains of my room's only window, and gaze out at the street below. Most mornings there is a brief rush hour wherein the streets are crawling with people, from adults to young children. For several hours after, the streets are all but deserted, with the majority of the district's citizens working or at school. But the morning of the reaping, few have cause to venture outside. An elderly woman with a frayed rag drawn over her head stands near the corner of the street, but no others are in sight.

In the distance is the large clock mounted over the Justice Building. It is just after nine. The reaping isn't until eleven forty-five, nine forty-five Capitol time. The reapings are spaced out throughout the day, with one beginning every fifteen minutes, for the benefit of Capitol viewers. The first is at nine fifteen Capitol time, the next at nine thirty, and so on.

I let the curtain fall back over the window and go to my closet. I don a pair of jeans and a shirt with the red Panem seal emblazoned on it, and then head to the kitchen.

Father is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a piece of toast. His gray eyes fix on me when I enter. He mutters a 'good morning', but nothing more. Even those two words are more than I usually receive from him, though. Most days he leaves early in the morning, often before I get up. He is an important man, the head of the experimental physics department, where they produce technologically advanced weapons for the Capitol. Father says weapon making is the specialty of District Two, but Three is tasked with much of the designing.

I help myself to a piece of toast. As I eat it, my hands cannot stop shaking. When I finish, I glance over at Father.

"Is the lab open today?" I ask, my voice slightly rusty from several hours of disuse.

"No," he says, "but there won't be anyone manning the doors." He gives me a knowing look, and I smile in spite of myself. Father is hardly the most present of parents, and often it surprises me how well he knows me.

"Excellent," I say.

"Be careful," Father reminds me. "There are cameras."

"I know where they are."

I pull on my sneakers and grab my green sweatshirt from its hook beside the door, and then leave the house for what I hope will not be the last time.

Father's lab is a five minute walk from the house, in the lower middle class section of town. Only a few buildings down from it is the house of my sister, Tana. I hardly ever see her these days, and have not once spoken to her since she came of age six years ago. My family is very large, and has roots even in some other districts, and in it there are several black sheep, people who are ashamed of their heritage as a Kovaćić. They cast aside the ring bearing the family crest that each Kovaćić is gifted at birth and all but adopt another identity.

The first camera is strapped to the upper left corner of the door, and faces out onto the street. I cannot try the door without being seen, but I can see even from a several yards away that it is locked; through the keyhole is the dark shadow of the bolt.

While I cannot help but be disappointed at the revelation, I had not expected it to be that easy. I try the windows next, of which there are eight on the first level. The first is locked, as is the second, and the following five. By the time I reach the eighth, I am considerably anxious. But this is the window to the lab specializing in chemicals, I reason. If any room was to need a quick escape, it is this one.

And indeed, the window slides open at my touch. I scan the room from the outside, noting the placement of the cameras, before climbing inside as quietly as I can. No camera is fixed on the window, much to my relief, but the angle of the nearest must beam hardly two feet in front of it. I press my back to the wall and gently slide the window shut. I ease my way through the room, carefully weaving through the views of the cameras.

Father's lab is one room down. The cameras are spaced much more predictably in the hallway, and I easily maneuver my way to the lab.

In the second to lowest drawer of a white cabinet is one of Father's more famous weapons, a Sniper Rifle I have been practicing with for years. The rifle is naturally silent, so I needn't worry about any mics, but I am careful to stand across from a target not in view of the cameras. I have long since perfected my aim, but practicing has always proved therapeutic and served to calm my nerves.

I raise the rifle to my shoulder and squint through the sights. The crosshairs dance over the red center of the target, just as they did the face of the boy in my dream. I inhale, exhale and squeeze the trigger.

Bull's eye.

* * *

**District 3 Male: Finian Lockhart, 15**

* * *

I do not know at what time I awaken, only that my room is still pitched in shadow, and the sun's glow is not yet upon the horizon. My mind is foggy with exhaustion, but I pull myself out of bed and tiptoe down to the storage room.

I shiver as my bare foot hits the cold stone ground. I hug the wall, feeling around for the light switch. I flip it, shielding my eyes and turning away as the bright light comes to life. When my eyes adjust, I turn back to face the dusty storage room.

On a table shoved against the far wall is my latest project: a device designed to leech all the electricity from anything it comes into contact with. While such a device could be used for a number of purposes, from pranks to faulty equipment, the purpose I have in mind is considerably more ambitious. For several years now my ultimate goal has been to break free from the prison that is District Three, to escape into the wild that lies beyond the electrified fence that is the border of my world. And indeed, the most daunting barrier is the fence itself; it is always electrified, and far too high to climb over.

Well, technically it isn't _always_ electrified. Just a few years ago it went dead for several days, and I claim full credit for the event. I had attempted to short circuit the fence, and caused a district-wide power outage. We all had to endure the darkness for a while, but it was worth it; never before and never since have I seen so much chaos and excitement in the district.

If all goes according to plan, my current project will be finished in just a few hours. Perhaps I will even be able to attempt it before the reaping. And perhaps though there will not be a full blown power outage, the frenzy from the last incident will return.

I tinker with the battery for a while, expanding its electrical capacity. The fence is very powerful, and while these batteries can store a remarkable amount of energy relative to their size, I am not positive it will be enough.

"Finn."

I whirl around. Father stands in the doorway. His brown hair is messy from sleep, and judging on his posture he is exhausted, but his eyes are keenly alert.

"Yes?" I say, stepping forward and shoving my project behind me. Father has never supported my experimentation, as it tends to get things destroyed. He was furious when he discovered I was behind the power outage.

"Here, eat this." He opens his hand and I see that he is clutching a piece of toast. From the look of it, there is even a small amount of butter smeared on it, a treat for the reaping. I notice how his hand shakes. Reaping nerves, I'd expect. They always affect him more than they do me.

I take the toast, but frown at him. "There's nothing to be worried about. Either I'll get picked or I won't. There's nothing to do about it." And if I am chosen, I will still have a 4.3% chance of victory.

Father's eyes meet mine, and I know my words haven't shifted him. We have never been close, but he would hate to lose me. He lost my mother shortly after I was born, and though he might not show it at times, losing his son would cripple him.

Then Father's eyes shift behind me, and his eyes narrow. "What are you making?"

A pink tinge appears on my cheeks. "School project," I blurt out instinctively. "Tech class."

"I see." I can tell he does not believe me, but he does not press the matter. He lingers awkwardly at the door for a moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates and shuts it again. And then he's gone.

It is after eleven o'clock that I finally finish the device. My heart thumping with excitement, I return to my room and dress in black pants and a light blue shirt, and put on my favorite black jacket. There may not be time to change for the reaping after I try out my latest experiment.

I leave the house, cradling the machine in my arms, and sprint at full tilt for the section of the fence that dips southward only streets away. Barely three minutes later I skid to a halt before the tall humming barrier. I glance around. From what I can see there are no spectators. Indeed, there is no one on the streets at all.

I carefully place the machine on the ground. I fumble for the electrodes, each of which is carefully covered with a thick rubber padding. I squeeze them between my thumbs, gathering my nerves. And then I lean forward and very carefully clasp them onto the humming wire.

There is a delay of about five seconds. In that time I scramble around and sprint away as quickly as I can. I don't know if anything will happen, but if anything does, I ought to be as far away as I possibly can.

I have almost reached the first line of buildings when it explodes. I launch myself forward, curling into a ball as I skid painfully into the ground. My heart pounds. Oh, no, not again.

I flex my arms and my legs. I am sure I will soon sport many bruises, but nothing feels broken. I turn around, still sitting, to look at the destruction.

An area several meters in diameter has been reduced to rubble. A large section of the fence has been destroyed, and the frayed edges on either side spark dangerously. The previously constant electrical hum is now an erratic staccato sound. Beyond the broken fence is a grassy plain, a plain that must not have been trodden upon for decades.

I will be the first. Still in a daze, I get to my feet and approach the ragged hole.

And then I hear them. In the distance, boots crunch into the ground in unison, coming ever closer. I turn around. Peacekeepers, at least a dozen of them. I know I cannot leave, not now. They will see me, and they will kill me. There is nothing behind which to hide beyond the fence. My head still swimming, drowning in the disappointment of the defeat, I turn and run.

* * *

**District 3 Female: Aria ****Kovaćić, 17**

* * *

It has not yet been half an hour since the district clock chimed eleven times. Soon I will have to stow my rifle in the drawer and ever so carefully take my leave. The reaping cannot be more than twenty minutes away. The prospect makes me nervous, but I know there is naught I can do but attend the reaping and see what happens.

The Kovaćić family is large, very large. We make up a good sixth of the district, I would wager. Every few years one of our number is reaped, a distant relative I have seen frequently around the district, even at school. There is a good chance a Kovaćić will be reaped this year. And it may just be me.

No. I cannot focus on such things right now. I shake my head and turn my attention back to the target. I lift the Sniper Rifle and take careful aim, moving my finger into position over the trigger.

As I press the trigger, a distant explosion disrupts my concentration. I straighten instinctively at the sound, and my shot goes wide, missing the target entirely. The bullet hits the leg of the nearest easel, which collapses with a loud crash. I wince at the sound. My eyes widen in horror as I note the nearest camera, which had a perfect view of the projectile colliding with the easel leg. There is no way the security officers will miss it.

Perfect.

I curse and rush over to the nearest window. In the distance a plume of smoke billows into the air. Factory explosions aren't uncommon in District Three, but the smoke is several streets to the north, beyond any factories. No, this explosion was at the northernmost boundary of the district. It was at the fence.

Excitement fills me immediately. What if someone managed to escape? It would be an amazing accomplishment, but more than that, the ensuing chase would be the most excitement the district has seen for years.

As I press my face against the window, a blue flash catches my eye. Security personnel, four of them. No doubt they saw the easel fall and decided to investigate. I curse again, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. I cannot let them catch me. They would not shoot me on sight, as a Peacekeeper might, but I would more likely than not earn myself a night in the Justice Building as well as a month on probation, both of which I would like to avoid.

I dash to the door to return to the window through which I entered, then freeze, realization dawning on me. The security guards are approaching from the side of the window. It is clearly in their view, and I would have no chance of escaping unseen until they themselves are inside the building, at which point they will immediately inspect the labs.

But I have to try. I continue to the window and grasp the base. I will more likely than not have only seconds to make my escape.

The security guards reach the front of the building. Three are out of sight, but the fourth, a tall man with dark skin, stands at the edge of my vision, carefully scanning the street. The front door opens, and I hear three of the officers enter the building, but still the fourth stands sentry. I tap my fingers impatiently on the wooden base of the window. He has to go inside, he has to.

The footsteps come closer. I shoot a frantic glance at the door behind me. And still the fourth guard does not move.

Someone has reached the door. Panic seizes me, and I shove myself into a corner behind a tall cabinet. The door opens, and I hear someone enter the room. The footsteps come nearer, until they are in front of the cabinet behind which I am hiding. My heart is pounding so loudly that I am sure the guard can hear it, but I manage to control my breathing. I stand as still as I can.

After what feels like an eternity, the man moves on. The footsteps recede, and I hear the door shut. For several minutes I don't dare to move. I am sure they are still inside the building, and I am terrified they will search the room a second time. But they do not, and after a time I emerge from my hiding place and look outside. The guard is gone.

I open the window and climb outside. The street is still deserted. I exhale in relief. I've made it. I hurry behind the nearest building and from there make my way to the town square, sticking to undercover alleyways and detours behind houses.

My heart is still pounding when I reach the square. I half expect the guards to come running up the street at any moment to haul me to the Justice Building as soon as the reaping concludes. I sign in and go to the roped-off section for seventeen-year-olds, glancing behind me all the while. But they do not come, and I begin at last to relax.

* * *

**District 3 Male: Finian Lockhart, 15**

* * *

The reaping begins as it does every year, with the Mayor's long speech. In my mind I fast forward three years, to when I am eighteen and standing in the section closest to the stage, waiting in anticipation for my final reaping to finally be over. No more standing in front of the stage, showcased to the nation like lambs for slaughter.

"Hey, Finn," someone mutters.

I turn. It's Knox, a tall dark-haired boy who has been my friend and compatriot since we were knee-high toddlers, mostly due to our shared sense of humor and love for creating havoc. "Hey," I whisper back.

"I saw the smoke," he says, smirking. "What did you do this time?"

I tell him about the device and my latest master plan. "The electrical intake far exceeded the storage capability of the battery. If I had been able to actually measure the voltage of the fence I'd have seen it coming, of course. I knew I shouldn't have used ammonium chloride as an electrolyte. It's one of the old compounds, and you can do so much better these days of you have the money."

Knox shakes his head, still smirking. "Nice job. I saw the fence. They're already starting to patch it back up, but they're not having an easy time of it. Why didn't you run for it? Hasn't that always been your goal? To get out of the district?"

"There were Peacekeepers," I say sourly. "If I'd made for the fence, they would have seen me and shot me for sure."

Knox starts to say something else, no doubt a teasing remark, but he is interrupted by a deep, unfamiliar voice. We both turn our attention to the stage, upon which stands a middle-aged man with medium brown skin and a partially shaved head of curly black hair.

"Good morning, and happy Hunger Games!" the man says, smiling broadly at the crowd assembled before him. "My name is Gideon, and I am your new Capitol escort. I'm afraid your previous escort had to retire. Don't worry, it wasn't her choice, it was simply her time! She had been at it for a good two score years. Anyways, it's great to meet you. Now, for our tributes. It is custom to start with the girl, yes?"

Gideon steps over to the first bowl and draws out a slip. The district waits with baited breath as he returns to the microphone and carefully unfolds it. "Aria Kovaćić!"

For a moment there is silence. I crane my neck, trying to pick out the owner of the name. The Kovaćić family is the largest in the district, and they almost frequently have representatives in the Games. I know several from school, but I don't recall an Aria.

Finally, the seventeen-year-old section parts, and a girl walks into the aisle. She is of average height, though perhaps an inch or two shorter than me, and has a mane of hair rolling down her back in fiery red waves. She takes her place on the stage, her hands clasped behind her back. She is surprisingly calm. There are no tears, and no sign even of surprise. She already shows more potential than many of the tributes chosen from District Three. I wonder how she will fare in the arena.

Gideon chooses a slip from the second bowl. "The male tribute is...Finian Lockhart!"

For a moment time seems to stop. A breeze sweeps through the square, plastering a lock of hair to my forehead. Knox turns to me, his eyes wide with horror.

My lip twitches. It's almost funny, the irony of the situation. All my life I have aspired to escape District Three, to go anywhere else. And now, not even an hour after a devastating failure, I have at last achieved my goal. And it will very likely be my downfall.

A four point three percent chance, that is all. But it's still a chance. And what choice do I have? I shrug and walk up to the stage. Hopefully the district will appreciate its luck. It has been years since we had a single true contender in the Games, let alone two.

Gideon shakes my hand firmly and turns back to the microphone with a grin. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce your two tributes: Aria Kovaćić and Finian Lockhart!"

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the lengthy wait. I'm afraid updates are going to be considerably slower than for my previous SYOTs, due to my increasingly busy schedule. **

**What did you think of Aria and Finian? Who do you think will survive longer? Who do you hope lives longer? **

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. District 4 Reaping

**District 4**

**0657 hours Western Standard Time**

* * *

**District 4 Female: Ember Wade, 17**

* * *

_I am a young child, only five or six. I sit atop the dining room table, wiggling my feet impatiently, twisting the blue fabric of my jacket in my fists. I stare at the clock, watching the minutes hand slowly creep towards the twelve at the top of the clock. At seven o'clock, the later weekend curfew will be lifted, and I will at last be able to escape to the seashore. _

_Only five minutes remain when I hear footsteps approaching. I scramble to get off of the table, but I am not quick enough. _

_A tall man appears in the doorway. "Ember! Get down from there," he orders, his eyes flashing with disgust as he eyes the place upon which I had been sitting only moments before. _

_"Sorry, Allen," I whisper. "It's just I wanted to see the clock but I can't from my chair, and you said I couldn't sit in yours." _

_Allen is not my father. I do not know who my father is. There are countless options, and Mother says it doesn't matter. Sometimes I wonder who he is, what he is like. If he would scare me, as Allen does. _

_Allen sneers at me. "I don't want a grimy child sitting on my chair, but I'd have no problem with one sitting where I put my plate at each meal?" I flinch as he steps towards me and raps his knuckles none too gently against my head. "Is there anything at all up here, or just air?" When I don't respond, he crosses his arms and steps back. "Well? Go back to your room. I need to eat breakfast." _

_"But...but..." I shoot a quick glance at the door. _

_"But?" _

_The words stick in my throat, but with some effort I get them out. "My friend...Hudson...he's going to teach me to swim. We're going down to the training area by the southern dock." _

_My step-father's eyes glint with mirth. "You, swim? Yeah, that'll happen." Suddenly his expression darkens. "Who did you say was teaching you? Hudson? A boy?" _

_I nod and flinch. Allen does not like it when I associate with boys. He wants to keep me for himself. I wait in apprehension for his reaction, not daring to glance up at his face. _

_When finally Allen speaks, I can hear the sneer in his voice. "You won't be going down to the docks today. Get back to your room." _

_"But, Allen - " _

_"Now." _

_I flee, hugging my jacket to my chest. Allen is never in a good mood in the morning, and I always do my best to avoid him before the sun has risen high in the sky. He will toss disdainful comments my way, with his trademark sneer ever present. But every so often he will speak a few kind words, or slip me a small treat, and I will wonder how I could have ever thought him a cruel stepfather. He knows exactly what to say to throw a thin sheet over my wounds, but that only makes it all the worse when again I am faced with his cruel sneer. _

_I hate him. But there is nothing I can do._

I despise the night. There is naught to do but lie on a mattress, asleep or awake, all alone, listening to the window shutters clang gently in the wind. My mattress is pressed against the far wall, so when I awaken in the night I can press my hand against the wall so that the room does not seem so large and empty.

When I wake, the wall is striped with thin threads of sunlight filtering through the wooden shutters. I raise my hand to the nearest stripe, watching my fingers dapple in the sunlight. Morning comes yet again. The reaping is at nine, a good two hours away. I will have time to seek out Brianna beforehand.

I get out of bed and draw the sheets up to the pillow. Across from my bed is my "closet", which in truth is little more than a row of hangers bearing my meager selection of clothing. My closet is one of the main reasons I never bring my friends to my house. What would they think of me if they saw how poorly I live?

I rifle through the hangers, searching for something suitable to wear. After five minutes of scouring the closet, I have found nothing decent. Last year I wore a dress, but Mother must have sold it in the months since. It was quite small on me, but in my eyes that was an upside; it came only to my thighs and gained me quite a few more glances.

Today I make do with tight leggings and a small blue shirt with an exceptionally low neckline. Glancing in the mirror, I begin to clean myself up. I brush my hair and meticulously tie it back, then carefully apply some makeup. Mother doesn't approve of my spending money on cosmetics, which indeed is not a common practice even among most girls my age, but everyone knows makeup makes you look prettier. A single glance at the Capitol will prove that.

I arrive in the space that serves as both the dining room and the kitchen at the same time as Ruben. My mother's boyfriend has been with us for three years. He moved in several years after Mother realized what Allen was doing to me and, blessedly, divorced him. He is a kind man, almost like a father to me. Indeed, I do often call him Father, but he will never truly be that to me. In truth, he and Mother are not even married.

"Good morning, Ember," he says, giving me a tired smile. He does not mention the reaping, but I can tell he is worried. Not just that I might be reaped, but that I might volunteer. Recently I joked to my therapist that I wanted to volunteer, but he took my remark seriously and spent a good two sessions prattling on about it, trying to dissuade me. As if I'd actually volunteer, like one of those nut job Academy trainees.

"Good morning," I say cheerfully. "I had a dream last night. It was the reaping, and I volunteered. Dylan volunteered for the boys, and it was because I was the girl." He frowns, and I forge onwards. "You know Dylan, right? He's the fastest swimmer on the team, and half the girls in the school have their eyes on him, as well as a good number of boys." I stifle a small giggle.

Ruben casts me a worried glance. "Ember, I - "

"And when he got to the podium he kissed me on the cheek, right in front of everyone." I grin at him. "What do you say about that?"

Ruben bites his lip. "Ember, are you worried about today?"

"Worried?" I give him a blank smile. "Whyever would I be worried? If I'm reaped, I'll crush anyone unlucky enough to go into the arena alongside me."

"Ember, I don't think..."

I wave off his concerns. "Don't worry. I'm not going to volunteer."

Ruben gives me a long look, but says nothing more. He brings a hunk of bread to the table and cuts me a slice. As I spread a thin layer of margarine onto it, he starts towards the door, then falters and returns to his chair, obviously deciding to let Mother sleep a little longer. I don't question his decision. A few years ago I might have wanted to keep her abed to avoid her company, but now I wish only to allow her more sleep. Mother used to despise me, the accident child she never wanted, but since Allen left us she has turned a full circle and become, truly, my mother.

When I finish my bread, I return to my room to groom myself a little more. Today is the reaping, and I'd be mortified to have an upper class citizen recognize me as a member of a low income family from the southern end of the district.

A little after eight o'clock, I depart for the square. It's a fifteen minute walk along the long road that winds down the seashore. I pass the southern dock and the small school at which Ruben is a history professor. In the distance I can see the Justice Building, much taller than any of the buildings surrounding it, save perhaps the Peacekeeper Headquarters a little farther on.

As I near the square I see her, walking not more than thirty meters ahead of me. Her dark skin glints in the sunlight, and her curly hair moves slightly in the gentle wind.

"Brianna!" I shout, feeling my face widening into a grin.

She turns and raises a hand to her brow, squinting into the bright sunlight. "Ember?" she calls back. There's something in her voice that I can't quite place. Excitement, no doubt, or relief to see me at last.

I break into a sprint and cover the distance between us in seconds. "Hey!" I say, throwing my arms around her. I wait a good five seconds before releasing her, but even then keep my hand clasped on her shoulder. "Happy Hunger Games. Are you ready for the reaping?"

Brianna glances behind me, then returns her gaze to my face. "Why are you coming from the South?" she asks curiously. "I thought you lived in the town. Didn't you say you could see the train station from your window?"

"Oh, I do," I answer airily. "I just got up early for a short walk. Sometimes I run down the road and back before school, but I took it easy this morning because of the reaping. Speaking of the reaping, are you ready?"

She looks away. "Yeah. Sure."

"Last night I dreamed I was reaped," I say. "I was reaped, and there weren't any volunteers for the girls, but Dylan volunteered for the boys to be with me. He likes me, you know?" I smile proudly.

Brianna looks up, her eyes wide. "Oh, Ember, don't worry yourself," she says sympathetically. "There are thousands of slips in that bowl. It won't be you. And even if by some minuscule chance it _is_ you, there'll be a volunteer at the ready. There always is." She doesn't mention Dylan, I note, amused. She's just jealous that he likes me.

We stand there talking for another twenty minutes. At some point Brianna begins to become agitated by something, I don't know what. She says something about finding her family and darts off, leaving me alone by the shore. I pursue her, but she is lost in the swarm of people milling about. Dejected, I follow the crowd to the square.

* * *

**District 4 Male: Mateo Corrigan, 14**

* * *

The small waves lap gently against the sandy shore. Folds of blue and green and gray wash across the beach, enveloping my feet and ankles. I stare out across the sea, wondering just how far it goes. From the eastern beach by the dock you can see the mainland of District Four in the distance, and from the north you can see the island of Victor's Village, but from the western beach there is only an endless expanse of sea stretching as far as the eye can see.

I have lived on this island for all my life, venturing to the mainland only for the reaping. The island has a population of thirty-eight citizens, including eight minors, four of whom are eligible for this year's reaping. Despite its small population, the island loses an adolescent to the Games every few years, most often through volunteering. We don't attend the famous Academy, but we have a good stock of weapons and train liberally with them.

I do train, but without any intention of volunteering. Why should I volunteer? Why should I venture into the crowded Capitol and into the arena, at age fourteen no less? Most likely I would die, but if I did not I would live out the rest of my days on an island not much larger than this, surrounded by cameras and paparazzi.

A flat oblong stone rests in the palm of my hand. I wade farther into the water and fling it out over the waves with a sharp snap of my wrist. It skips once, twice, thrice, four times, then sinks below the waves. I reach into the soft sand below my bare feet and feel for another rock. This one skips seven times before it is submerged. In my fourteen years on this island I have all but perfected the art of skipping stones. Often there is nothing else to do when I grow tired of the array of tridents and swords.

Suddenly I hear the distinctive sound of a foot breaking the surface of the water and plodding heavily into the sand beneath. I whip around, my eyes narrowing. I despise being caught unawares. There are no true predators on this island, save the nasty sand crabs with their mutated pincers, but you never know what might sneak up behind you if you don't pay attention.

I relax when I see who it is. "Bentson," I say with a grudging smile.

"Corrigan."

It's Jordan Bentson, my closest friend in this place. Not that there are many options; the only other teenagers are two girls who live across the island, a thirteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old.

Jordan wades through the water until he reaches my side. "Happy Hunger Games," he says. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Why, thank you," I say, rolling my eyes. "You just made all the difference."

"Glad to hear it," he says. "We're leaving for the reaping at eight twenty. Want to get some sparring in first?"

I glance up at him, somewhat surprised by his suggestion. Jordan has trained lightly for years, as have many of us, but he does not have the joy for it that most of us possess. It is mostly out of peer pressure that he trains. But I do not oppose his suggestion. "Sure," I say. "Come on."

We splash back to the shore and go to the small shack of public weapons. The shack contains mostly nets, tridents and harpoons for fishing, but contains other weapons as well, along with shields and some armor. I pick up a trident. Jordan notes my selection, then chooses a shield and a short sword for himself. He tosses me a net, grinning. I frown at him, but the expression on his face says, _humor me_.

"What's so funny?" I demand suspiciously. I inspect my weapons. Did he tamper with them? No, he wouldn't do that. Or would he, if only to win a bout of sparring?

"You're the retiarius, I'm the secutor," Jordan says, still grinning.

"What?"

"Ancient warriors," Jordan explains. "Gladiators, they called them. The retarius would have a trident and a net, and the secutor a shield and a gladius, which is sort of like a sword. They fought for entertainment. Sort of like the Hunger Games, if you think about it. This was ages ago. Literally. Before the Dark Days, before Panem, even before America. I read about it in a book. It wasn't even Capitol edited - written before the Dark Days, too!"

I narrow my eyes. "You found a book from before the Dark Days?"

Jordan's smile fades. "It...it was in the basement. You won't tell anyone...will you?"

I glance eastwards, towards the mainland. "Of course not." For a moment we both are silent, and all I can hear is the wind over the water. Then I clear my throat and say, "Let's get to it."

Still barefoot, we take our stances across from each other. I move first, jabbing towards him with my trident. He knocks the weapon aside with his shield and advances, sword held aloft. He swings at me, but I duck under his blade and spin behind him. Before he can turn to face me, I throw my net over him. He stumbles around, but his sword catches in the net. Before long, he is hopelessly ensnared.

"I win," I say, "but I can't say I liked the net very much. It was useful, but it doesn't feel natural." I help him extract himself from it, then toss it back into the weapons shed. "Let's try that again."

This time Jordan beats me, but I win the third bout, and the fourth. We are about to begin a fifth round when I see Father out of the corner of my eye.

"Mateo," he calls, jogging up. "It's after eight. Get back to the house, we're leaving in fifteen minutes. Jordan, your father wants you back as well."

Jordan clasps me on the shoulder. "See you after the reaping." He walks away, and I glance up at Father. It is strange, seeing him in the late morning light. Usually at sunrise he takes a boat to the mainland, where he teaches at the Academy. He was once the best instructor they had, but he has aged, and several years ago he lost an arm in a fishing accident. But he has not lost his enthusiasm for training.

We return to the house, where I trade my waterproof trousers in for jeans and a cotton shirt. Then I meet Mother and Father at the main dock on the eastern face of the island, and we board the boat to the mainland.

* * *

**District 4 Female: Ember Wade, 17**

* * *

When I sign into the reaping I immediately search the square for Brianna, but I cannot find her. I sulk for only a few moments before crossing the aisle to the boys' section. Dylan is standing near the front, his eyes fixed dutifully on the podium, though the reaping has not yet begun.

"Dylan!" I call, waving. He starts and turns, and I giggle and twist a loose strand of hair around my finger.

"Ember," he says, sounding almost nervous. I have that sort of effect on people, I've found.

I wrap my arms around him, embracing him for a few moments longer than usual. When I pull away, I grin up into his face, adjusting my shirt ostentatiously. "You're going to volunteer, aren't you?"

He clears his throat and folds his arms across his chest. "Oh. Um. Not this year. I don't think...I mean..." A pink tinge appears on his cheeks, and he takes a small step back.

I close the gap between us again and give him a reassuring smile. "Oh, you should. We'd all love to see it. And you'd win, without a doubt. Unless, of course, I was in the arena with you, in which case you'd really have to watch your back." I wink at him, and he takes another step back, which I counter with another step of my own.

Dylan clears his throat again. "Maybe you should get back to your section. The reaping is about to begin."

I give him my best pout, but return to the girls. This time I find Brianna, standing in the far corner of the section. Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment, but they flit away again. I weave my way towards her, nearly bursting with a new story to tell her.

"Brianna!" I say excitedly. "Guess what? Dylan said he likes me!"

Brianna crosses her arms and says nothing.

"Me! Can you believe it?"

Happily surprised for me, Brianna remains silent. I search for something else to say, but before I get the chance, the Mayor calls for silence and begins his tedious speech. After a few minutes, I can't old my words in any longer, and begin to talk quietly to Brianna, but my words are met by silence. By the time the Mayor finishes, I am desperate to speak to anyone, to have anyone glance my way.

The escort, Marisca, steps up to the microphone. She begins with the customary greetings. I bounce on the balls of my feet, half wanting to burst into the aisle separating the girls and the boys, just to have something happen.

Finally Marisca chooses the first slip. I watch, only slightly apprehensive, as she unfolds it. And then she reads, "Ember Wade!"

Brianna stifles a gasp. All around me people are turning, staring at me. Whispering my name, only my name. And I love it.

I walk into the aisle. I hear someone volunteer, but I break into a sprint, shouting, "No! It's me!" I skid to a halt beside the escort, glaring fiercely at the volunteer, who has only just reached the base of the steps. "Me!" I smile out at the vast crowd, cherishing the attention. "My name is Ember, and I am your new tribute."

* * *

**District 4 Male: Mateo Corrigan, 14**

* * *

Marisca chooses the girl first, as usual. It's a seventeen-year-old, Ember Wade. I have never met her before, nor even seen her, but I have heard all about her from Father. He says she has frequented the Academy for several years now, and that her presence is often not appreciated, as she has a habit of distracting anyone training in her vicinity. Once he returned from the mainland, positively fuming about her, as she had reportedly continuously disrupted a one-on-one training session with the soon-to-be volunteer.

Ember had not built herself a very good reputation in my house, but still I watch her curiously as she ascends the steps to the stage. Unlike most of the girls she is not wearing a dress, but instead flaunts a loose shirt with a distractingly low neckline. She is trying to play with our minds already. I am instantly on guard, watching her with an air of caution.

A few sections in front of me, an older boy whistles loudly, to several snickers and murmurs of agreement. Ember hears, and a wide smile spreads across her face. This one will get along just fine in the Capitol.

"Congratulations, Ember," Marisca says, slipping the paper into her pocket. "My, my, what an exciting day this must be for you. One minute just a little District Four girl, the next minute the soon-to-be love of the Capitol. Now it is time to choose your partner. What lucky boy will be the one to stand alongside our Ember?"

Marisca draws a slip from the second bowl and unfolds it slowly, drawing out the moment. She reads the name, and it's not me.

But I begin to think. I think of my house, my little room on my little island out in the middle of nowhere, several miles off of the coast of District Four. There is little to do but train and skip rocks. I have been feeling cramped lately, and very bored. Suddenly my only options become very clear: waste away on a tiny island for the rest of my days, or seek out action and excitement. And when I think about it, there really is no choice at all.

"I volunteer!" I shout. I burst out of the section and run to the stage, passing face upon unfamiliar face.

"Excellent!" Marisca says. "What's your name, dear?"

"Mateo," I say. "Mateo Corrigan."

Already my heart is pounding with excitement. I have taken a step onto a path of my own choosing, and now we shall see where it leads.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Marisca announces. "Your tributes: Ember Wade and Mateo Corrigan!"

* * *

**A/N: The usual routine: What did you think of these tributes? Which did you prefer? How far do you think each of them will get? **

**Thanks for reading, and please review. **


	6. District 5 Reaping

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to all killed, displaced or otherwise affected by the Nepal earthquake. **

* * *

**District 5**

**8012 hours**

* * *

**District 5 Female: Marina Dangora, 16**

* * *

Each morning when I awaken my first companion is a rush of joy. I close my eyes and bask in the warm sunlight trickling in through the open window and wonder about the day to come. Will our latest calf be born? Or perhaps Nadya will come over from the town and we will spend the morning wading through the thick grasses that must rival those in the outer agricultural districts before heading back to town for school.

But this morning something is different. It is later than usual, and the sun's rays have moved on to the far side of the room, rather than lingering over my bed as they do when I usually awaken. My bed is pitched into shadow, and indeed the sunlight across the room is faint and almost sickly-looking. But surely that is not enough to dispel my joy. No, there is something else at work.

And then I remember: today is reaping day.

Fear sweeps through me, and my heart thumps loudly in my chest. For a moment I only lie in bed, all but frozen in place. Then I begin to coax myself back to reason. I've taken not a single tessera, I remind myself. The kids of the lowest class power plant workers in the town of District Five will have twice, even three times as many entries as I do. I needn't fear.

The fear subsides, but still it lingers within me, reminding me that I am helpless to the decisions of the Capitol. If it _is_ my name that is pulled from the bowl...

_It will not be_, I tell myself firmly.

_It might be_.

_Five entries, five out of thousands._

_What if it is me?_

Someone is knocking on the door. "Marina?" It's Peter. He is only my brother, but he has made it clear that he thinks himself as much my guardian as Mother and Father are. He is nineteen, and Mother often suggests he leave our house and forge out a life of his own, whether in the town or the countryside, but he has no intention of leaving the ranch upon which he has lived for his entire life.

I want to respond, but the fear has returned. I grab a fistful of the cotton hem of my shirt and close my eyes, thinking of the small pond just past the cows, the glint of the morning sunlight on its surface, anything but the reaping.

"Marina?" Peter says again, his concern apparent. He opens the door and sticks his head in.

I open my eyes and look up at him. "Good morning," I say, smiling to hide my apprehension. "Looks like I overslept. Why didn't you wake me up before? I was supposed to feed the animals."

"We thought we could use the rest," Peter says. "You don't need anything else to worry about. Not today." He pauses for a moment, his gaze wandering to my open window, then continues. "It's time for breakfast. Toast and bacon, your favorite. The reaping isn't for another hour. We're leaving at five before nine." He pauses to give me an apologetic glance. "Now, come on. Breakfast."

I get to my feet and follow him from the room, feeling oddly disconnected. Normally Peter might crack a joke, asking who I was and what I'd done with Marina, but not today. No, Peter understands all too well my fear.

Mother, Father and seventeen-year-old Michael are already at the table. Unsurprisingly, Michael is eyeing his food, clearly disliking having to wait for me to begin. When Peter and I enter, he digs in immediately with obvious relief. Father gives him an exasperated glance, then turns his attention back to me.

"Did you have a nice lie-in?" he asks, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly.

"Yes, it was quite relaxing," I answer.

"Excellent." Father pulls back my chair and gestures for me to sit. He makes an effort to appear normal, but I can see the tension in his voice, in his movements. He is as nervous about today as the rest of us.

As I chew on my strip of bacon, I feel my nerves calm somewhat. I only have five entries, five in thousands, only a tiny fraction of a percent of being chosen. Of course it won't be me. I begin to talk more freely, and the tension in the room gradually eases.

When my plate is clear, Michael is still eating, his dark head bowed over his plate. I send an amused glance his way and quip, "Do you ever stop eating?"

He glances up innocently, revealing a chin shiny with grease from the bacon. "What? I'm hungry. We have food, and I'm not going to let it go to waste. There are children starving in District Twelve, you know. Not to mention in our very own town. You just don't appreciate our fortune. Not every family gets their own ranch, if you haven't noticed."

Indeed, there are only a few farms in District Five. The livestock of Panem is mostly concentrated in District Ten, of course, but each district has a small local source. The trains built in District Six are the fastest in history, but it wouldn't do to ship barrels and barrels of milk north to each district from Ten. I'm sure the other districts have farms as well, perhaps even the Capitol, but there's no way to know.

I return to my room and trade in my night clothes for a white dress and sandals. It will be a while until Michael finishes breakfast and is ready to leave, so I leave the house to spend some time outside.

For the first few minutes I just stand there, facing west, away from the town, feeling the long grass brush my ankles. Most mornings my friend Nadya comes here before school, and we wade through the grasses together, or just sit beside the pond and talk. But today is the reaping. She will be spending the morning with her family, as I am.

I hear the front door shut behind me, and then the sound of footsteps approaching. By his footfalls I know who it is before he speaks: "It's beautiful out here, isn't it?"

"It is," I agree. "You'd think it would get old after sixteen years, but it hasn't at all."

"And that won't change in the next three years, I assure you," Peter says. "I talked to Mom, and she says we can eat dinner down by the pond." After the reaping. He does not say it aloud, but I know he is thinking it. I look over at him, but his eyes remain fixed on a point far in the distance. "We'll have a splendid picnic," he adds for my benefit. "Just you wait."

"I'm sure," I say. "I just wish I could fast-forward one hour. The suspense is horrible. It's at times like these that I almost wish I'd been raised in the Capitol." Almost. I have nothing against the citizens of the Capitol, but I hate the way they follow the government like mindless sheep. "But I'm glad I wasn't," I say. "I wouldn't trade this away any day."

"Nor would I." Peter turns then and smiles kindly. "Michael must be nearly done by now. What do you say we get back to the house?"

I smile and take his outstretched hand, feeling like a child half my age and quite enjoying it. Hand in hand, we head towards the rising sun.

* * *

**District 5 Male: Luthen Mire, 12**

* * *

A low moaning rocks me from my dreams. Blearily, I open my eyes and stare around the room. On the mattress next to mine, Jenet and Rhail lie side-by-side, facing towards each other, each the perfect mirror image of the other, right down to their loose gray nightclothes. But the other side of my own mattress is empty, though a lingering warmth says it was recently occupied.

"Aien?" I venture hesitantly, glancing behind me to make sure my words have not awoken the twins. Ever since they turned fifteen they have been very possessive about their sleeping hours. It is one of the few aspects they have in common.

The only response is another sob. It's not coming from this room, I realize, but rather the adjacent room, where my sisters sleep. I get out of bed, leaving the blankets in a pile, and tiptoe from the room.

There are two mattresses in the girls' room. On the first is little Tammy, my cousin, still sleeping, and beside her, propped up on her elbows, my fourteen-year-old sister Dell. She glances over at me when I enter, then returns her gaze to the second mattress, upon which my eldest sister is sleeping fitfully. Aien kneels beside her, whispering softly.

"Shh," he murmurs, "it's okay, Iada. You're okay." She doesn't awaken, but cries out again in her sleep.

"Another nightmare?" I whisper to Dell, who nods in response. "But that's the fifth time this week!"

"And the last, I'd think," Dell whispers back. "It's her last year."

Iada has been plagued with nightmares since her first year of eligibility. We all get nervous for the reaping, but the anxiety has always hit her the hardest. Aien is only two years her senior, but sometimes he seems like her father. Sometimes I joke that he is not a second father to us but a mother, for while Father is around reasonably frequently, Mother works in the power plant for both the morning and afternoon shifts, a total of sixteen hours a day. I suppose it's a necessity when you have six children, plus a five-year-old niece.

Tammy is awakening, roused by Iada's sobs. I sit down beside her and gather her up in my arms, feeling very adult. Not every twelve-year-old has a little cousin to look after the way I do. Aien is her favorite, but she accepts my presence for the moment and buries her head in my neck.

Tammy and her mother came to live with us five years ago, when I was seven. Her father had left them before she was born, leaving her mother with an infant and little more. Two years later, Aien brought us back from school to find her mother's bloated corpse hanging from the ceiling, a belt twisted around her neck. I don't know if Tammy remembers it. I hope she doesn't.

"Why's she crying?" Tammy murmurs in my ear with a yawn.

"'Cause of the reaping," I answer. "It's her last year, and it's my first. Except I'm not scared," I assure her. "I'm not scared of the reaping like she is. One day it'll be your first year, too, and you won't be scared, will you?"

"I dunno," she says, "but I hope I'm never your age. I don't wanna be in the reaping."

Aien shushes us, but it's two late. Iada slowly emerges from her restless sleep. She opens her gray eyes and looks first at Aien, then at the rest of us. Her breaths are shallow and labored, as if she is still stuck in a nightmare. Aien murmurs softly to her, hugging her thin frame against his.

"Don't be scared," Tammy says, her voice still thick with sleep. "Luthen says he's not scared, and you're bigger than him, so you shouldn't be scared neither."

Aien looks over at us with a tired smile. "I would advise you to get back to sleep, but I don't think there's much chance of that now. It'll be light soon." He looks over at the window, which is glowing with a dim gray light.

"No chance at all," I agree cheerfully. "What's for breakfast? Not cereal again, is it?"

"I'm afraid so."

I sigh indignantly and jump up to go to the dining room. At the bedroom doorway I quite literally run into Rhail. His brown hair is mussed up, his eyes bleary from sleep. He and Jenet are near identical in appearance, but if one is met in the morning it could only be Rhail; Jenet is even scarcer than usual in the early hours.

Rhail catches my arm, steadying me with a grin. "Easy there," he says. "What's the big rush?"

I make a face. "Cereal. Again."

He laughs, and I squeeze past him and run to the dining room. I pull the cereal box from the cupboard and set it on the table just as Aien comes in, Tammy in his arms, flanked by Rhail, Iada and Dell. Aien pours us all a large bowl, a treat for reaping day. Iada remains pale and quiet for the entire meal, as if she truly expects to be reaped. It's hardly a possibility at all, though; she only has seven entries. The twins and Dell took two tessera portions each to ensure that Ia and I had the lowest chances possible. But Ia has always been a worrier.

Halfway through the meal, Father comes to join us. He is used to awakening to find us already eating, but he still smiles at the sight, before remembering something and looking down with a grimace. I look up with a start as Mother walks in behind us. The morning shift at the local power plant begins early in the morning, and she is _never_ around for breakfast. This is a good day indeed! I run to her and hug her tightly.

After breakfast, I return to my room to change for the reaping. Aien helps me pick out a pair of coveralls that were Dell's before they were mine, Rhail's before that, and Aien's first. He also insists I wear a shirt with a starchy collar, even after I tell him it's uncomfortable. Sometimes the Capitol makes me mad. If not for them I'd be wearing a nice, comfortable t-shirt. I tell that to Aien, but he only smiles thinly, and I find myself wondering to where his sense of humor has escaped.

On my way back to my mattress, I trip over the twins' bed and land on something hard. I yelp, and something under me squirms. Oh, excellent.

Jenet opens one eye to glare at me, then rolls over onto his side with a groan and a muttered, "I swear you're twenty pounds heavier than last night."

If it were Rhail I'd awoken, I would have been met with a none too light cuff and several choice words, I don't doubt. Thanking my luck, I sit down on my mattress as Jenet slowly gets up and dresses. I notice his shirt has a collar like mine and feel sorry for the people in District Eight, having to waste fabric on little ornaments serving no purpose other than to chafe the neck. I whine loudly and tug at my own collar until Jenet shoots me a look that clearly says, _I don't like this any more than you do, now be quiet_.

So I jump from the mattress and scamper out of the room to find Dell. Maybe she'll be more fun. Today isn't a funeral, after all.

* * *

**0910 hours**

**District 5 Female: Marina Dangora, 16**

* * *

I stand in line outside of the square with the other adolescents. I am just ahead of a trio of girls from my year at school. I do not count them among my very close friends, but would any other day have happily approached them and engaged in conversation. But they stand stiffly and exchange not a word between them, so I only give them a nod of greeting.

When I sign in I step out of the stream of eligibles and observe the square. The eighteen-year-olds are at the very front, just below the stage, and the twelve-year-olds are in the very back. I have never understood this custom. On most occasions it is courteous to grant the front to the smallest. Many of the youngest eligibles have not yet even reached five feet. I do not know how they see the stage.

"Marina!"

I start, and scan the crowd, searching for the source of the voice. I recognize its calm, smooth timber. It's Nadya. As soon I put a name to the voice, I see her wading upstream through the adolescents trickling into the square.

"Nadya!" I walk towards her, feeling a smile break out on my face. When I reach her I hug her tightly. "How are you?"

"A bit nervous," she admits. "My brother isn't eligible this year, so I had to take tesserae. It's just ten entries, but that still ten more slips with my name on them."

"It'll be fine," I assure her.

"Oh, I know," Nadya says with a sheepish grin. "It's just the 'what if' that's getting to me. There's always a chance. A very small chance, but a chance all the same. And my father's not helping at all. He's actually betting this year, which I never thought he'd do. He's bet a decent sum the girl will be from the East Town." Her grin fades, replaced my a worried look of contemplation. "He has an uncanny skill with predictions."

"It'll be fine," I say again. "Even if his prediction is correct, there are still hundreds of eligible females in the East Town. If he'd said the girl would be from outside of the Town, however..." I try to force a laugh, but it comes out as more of a nervous chuckle.

Nadya does not respond, and we take our place with the other sixteen-year-old girls in silence. Usually we are both quite talkative, but the reaping never fails to dampen the moods of all. When the Mayor raises her hand for silence, even she appears weary and nervous.

"Welcome," she begins. Her eyes sweep over the crowd, lingering a moment on the section at the very back of the square. Ah, yes, that's right. It's her eldest son's first year of eligibility. Of course she is anxious. She does not waste any more time on frivolities. "Before our two contenders are chosen, I shall read the document that started this tradition fifty-one years ago." And she does. I immerse myself in her words, imagining the terrible earthquakes that cleaved the land, the wars, children's still bodies lying amidst rubble.

Our ancestors knew loss and hardship. They knew more than anyone should have to know. And here we are, centuries after the fall of the civilizations of the last age, offering up children to murder each other for the entertainment of the wealthy. So much young blood is spilled to ensure that the bloodshed of war never again occurs.

The Treaty of Treason ends with words of honor and sacrifice, depicting the beauty of the Games. The Mayor's voice is plain as she speaks, but her eyes remain for the entire duration of the speech on the twelve-year-olds' section, on her son's face no doubt, as if fearing she may never see him again after this day. And she very well may not.

The Mayor steps back, and Filius approaches the microphone. He has been our Capitol escort for the entire duration of my life, and I cannot imagine a reaping without him. He is tall, taller than any of the victors, and his skin is darker than most found in District Five, save a small pocket in the northeastern section of the Town.

"Welcome!" Filius says, opening his arms to the crowd with a broad smile. "It's excellent, truly excellent, to see you all once again. In fact, I daresay I recognize more than a few of your faces." He gestures towards the eldest eligibles. "Now, I know the suspense must be getting to you - it's definitely getting to me, and my name isn't even in the bowl - so we'll get right to it. Ladies first!"

Despite his words regarding haste, the next few moments seem to last an eternity. Filius selects a slip from the girls' bowl and unfolds it carefully. Nadya's words echo in my mind: _A very small chance, but a chance all the same_. Fear seizes me, and I grab Nadya's hand. She is steady, but I'm sure I am trembling terribly.

_Not me. Not me. Not me_.

"Our female tribute is...Marina Dangora!"

It is as if a hundred pound weight has hit me square in my chest. I sway on my feet, my head pounding. Nadya's hand squeezes mine like a vice, and now she is shaking, or perhaps that is just the adrenaline roaring through my veins.

Someone pushes me from behind, and then I am in the aisle. There is a pressure behind my eyes, and I know the tears aren't far away. I try to hold them back, but fail miserably.

I have no memory of the time passing, but the next thing I know I am standing on the stage, Filius shaking my limp hand. And then a boy joins us, a young boy, no older than twelve years in age, and I wonder if this is the Mayor's son, but no, the Mayor looks far too relieved. I shake the boy's hand, and stare down into his young, solemn eyes, and know that within the week he will most likely be dead, and I will as well. The tears come again, and this time I let them come.

* * *

**District 5 Male: Luthen Mire, 12**

* * *

I am among the last twelve-year-olds to enter the section. Most of the others are quiet, and all have solemn faces. I find my friend Rubin, and realize that even he is far more subdued than usual. But when he sees me his face lights up, and he instantly comes to my side.

"Today's not a funeral," I tell him. "I told that to Dell, and she snapped at me. Why is everyone so gloomy? We're twelve, it's not like we have any real chance of getting picked. Your name's only in there twice, and mine's in there once."

Rubin shrugs. "People are paranoid. And I honestly can't blame them. I mean, if they _are_ picked, they're sort of screwed. We'd never last a minute in the Games."

"I would," I boast with a grin. "I'd live one day, and then the next, and before you knew it it'd just be me left."

Rubin grins. "Uh huh, in your dreams maybe. Anyway, home come you aren't taking any tesserae? There are six of you, plus your parents and Tammy."

"There a are a lot of us to take the tesserae, too," I say. "Aien used to take it all, but last year he aged out, so Rhail and Jenet split the tesserae. This year Dell's splitting it with them three-way. I won't have to take any tesserae until I'm sixteen, 'cause then the twins will be too old and I won't make Dell take all of it like Aien used to do. And then eventually Tammy will be old enough, and I guess she'll have to take a lot, but by then we might be moved out or have jobs, so - "

"Hush up!" Rubin hisses suddenly.

"Huh?" I look up, and realize that the Mayor is at the podium, already beginning the Treaty of Treason. I grin sheepishly and take a small step backwards, pretending to hide behind Rubin. He just rolls his eyes and nudges me away.

After a few minutes, I notice something odd. I lean over and whisper in Rubin's ear, "The Mayor's staring at us. Uh oh, I think she saw me." For a moment I am actually apprehensive; the Mayor is not someone you want to mess around with. If she wanted to, she could easily lock you up in the Justice Building for the rest of your life. Well, maybe she isn't _that_ cruel, but she is certainly strict.

Rubin looks up at the stage, then shakes his head, so small a movement that I hardly catch it. Then he nods his head at a boy standing in the row ahead of us, about a meter to our right, and I understand. We have always known the boy is her son, but he is so quiet and nondescript that we rarely ever think of him at all, let alone his parentage.

My apprehension dissolves, and I turn to Rubin with a grin. "That means we can talk!" I whisper. "She's not going to be paying attention to anyone but him, and maybe looking down at the Treaty, since I doubt anyone could have memorized the whole thing."

To my disappointment, Rubin shushes me and turns back to the stage. I grumble, but don't try to talk to him again.

Finally it is time to pick the tributes. I don't pay much attention to the selection. I know neither name will be mine, the first because it's a girl, and I'm not a girl, and the second because, well, my name's only in there once. And of course it isn't my name that Filius calls, but that of some girl several years older than me. I don't recognize her. She's crying.

I'm hungry. I think of reaping day dinner tonight, and my mouth begins to water. Mother won't be working, she'll be eating with us. Oh, I do hope Father got a steak. We haven't had one in months, and I love steak. Plain steak is excellent enough, but Aien makes the best sauce in Panem, and I always wish I could have seconds, but they always make it last for as many nights as they can. But tonight, since it's my first reaping, maybe if I beg Aien he'll let me have seconds.

I find him in the crowd, and am about to grin at him when I see the expression on his face: pure horror and disbelief. Behind him stand Mother and Father, their faces also twisted in shock. I'm not used to seeing any emotion at all on Mother's face, and the sight jars me. And then I realize it's not just them, that everyone's staring at me. Usually I love attention, but now I feel immensely uncomfortable. Why are they all looking at me? Did I do something?

And then I feel two thick, muscular hands close around my arms. I struggle, but cannot slip free. I twist around and see two tall men in white uniforms. Peacekeepers. They haul me out into the aisle and begin to drag me towards the stage.

"I can walk!" I cry, writhing in their grasp. "Let me go, I can walk!"

I feel their grips loosen, and finally manage to get free. I fall to the ground, but get back to my feet, dusting myself off. The Peacekeepers flank me as I walk to the stage. I can almost smell the steak I might have had tonight. The Mayor must have seen me talking and decided to arrest me. That's really the only option. But then why is there no male tribute on the stage? Was taking me away really more important than choosing the boy? Maybe the Mayor tried to delay it so her son wouldn't be picked, but of course he wouldn't be picked; he only has one entry, like me.

I hope they have good food at the Justice Building. Or maybe Aien will save me some steak.

When I reach the stage, Filius grabs my hand and shakes it enthusiastically. I grin up at him, but my grin fades when he speaks: "Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes: Marina Dangora and Luthen Mire!"

* * *

**A/N: I'm going to be gone for most of the summer, but hopefully I'll be able to finish a few more reapings before then. **

**Who did you like better, Marina or Luthen? Why? **

**How long do you predict each of them will survive? **

**How was my writing?**

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**


	7. District 6 Reaping

**District 6 **

**1022 hours**

* * *

**District 6 Female: Blaesa Sparc, 15**

* * *

If there are any upsides to reaping day, it's the quiet morning. Three hundred and sixty four days a year, my alarm clock breaks the silence at seven in the morning, and I am ushered off either to school or a morning shift at the factory. But once a year I awaken to a silent room, and the streets are empty. The district is strung with tension for the day to come, but at least it is quiet.

To my eyes the room is little more than a blur of beige and brown, but I don't reach for my glasses. I always wait until the last moment to put the darned things on. I know my room like the back of my hand, so why should I wear them here?

Holding my hands out in front of me in case the wall is closer than it appears, I walk carefully towards my closet. My fingertips are only inches away when my foot snags something slippery and I go crashing to the ground.

I sit up, groaning and wincing. I rub my forearm gingerly. I'm sure to have a bruise there within the day. Perhaps I should put on my glasses after all; I would never have fallen if I had been wearing them.

My foot is cloaked in something green. I reach down and disentangle it. It's a green sleeveless dress, the dress I had planned to wear to the reaping. Ah, that's right, I set it out last night so I wouldn't have to make the long blind trek to my closet. Father often says I am thoughtless, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I do think ahead, I just forget about it within the hour.

I change into the dress and place my glasses on my face, though not without a sigh of resignation as the rims fall in front of my eyes. But at least I can see. I leave my room and tread quietly to the dining room. The dining room is the largest room in the house, with a table far too large for the three who frequent it. Mother and Father are at the table. Mother is reading the paper while Father finishes the last dredges of his cereal. They both look up when I enter.

"Good morning," Mother says.

"Morning?" Father scoffs. "More like afternoon. Now I understand why most of your school hours are during the morning factory shift. If they weren't, none of the teenagers in the district would be up before noon."

"Ten thirty, actually," Mother says. She smiles reassuringly at me, then collects her cereal bowl and Father's and leaves for the kitchen. I sit down in her vacated seat, moving her paper to the side.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal and wait for Father to begin talking, as he does any time he is around Mother or me. He does not disappoint.

"You won't believe it," Father states. I only raise my eyebrows at him. "It's reaping day. The kids get the day off from school, and none of the rest of us have to work. That's always been the deal, right?" I nod, gesturing for him to continue. "Well, they've changed that."

That gets a response. I straighten, my eyes narrowing. They aren't going to shepherd us over to the school after the reaping, are they? Try to teach us anything when the adrenaline from the reaping hasn't yet died down?

Father chuckles at my reaction. "No, don't worry, you still don't have school. But I've been called back to the factory from two to six tonight. Four hours! And it's not a full shift, so we're not even getting paid half!" Father is decent about keeping quiet around the district, but at home his mind to mouth filter always takes a vacation.

"Blaesa." I look up from my cereal. Mother has returned, and is scooping up her newspaper again. "Aren't you meeting Ala before the reaping?"

I frown for a moment, then smile sheepishly when I remember. "Oh. Yes. Right."

* * *

**District 6 Male: Jackson Ford, 14**

* * *

District Six is not known for its warmth, not in the community and certainly not in the weather, but this morning is colder than most. I am wearing nothing but the black outfit I wear to the factory, though it is cold enough to warrant a thick sweatshirt, if not a coat. An icy wind sweeps down the street, and I shiver, hugging my arms to my chest.

My arms are nearly numb, but my mind is still sharp. Only this past winter I was disappointed to learn that physical numbness often does not at all translate to mental numbness, no matter how much you wish it to. I had gone out into the sub-zero streets wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and shorts in a desperate hope that my father's next piercing glare would not cut as deep. They found me huddled next to a building, several of my fingers stiff with frostbite. Father gave me a look of disapproval so sharp that I could not look him in the eye for days.

We haven't much money, not nearly enough to afford any medical care beyond the absolute essentials. I suppose I am just lucky I didn't lose any fingers.

But today I am glad my head is clear. If anything, the brisk wind has sharpened my senses. My skin tingles, and I can feel each rock through the thin soles of my shoes. I hear another gust of wind farther down the street and brace myself just before it sweeps over me.

"Hey! Kid!"

My head shoots up, my eyes narrowing. It's a girl only a few years older than I am, probably still reaping age. She wears a black woolen sweater several sizes too large for her.

"What?" I say warily.

"You shouldn't be out here without a sweater," she says. "It's due to warm up some for the reaping, but right now it's below freezing."

"I believe I know better than you what I should wear," I say irritably. "Thank you for your concern." I walk past her, still fuming. Did she think I was not aware of the cold? If I had truly needed a jacket, I would have gotten one!

I keep walking, without any particular destination in mind. There is time yet until the reaping, and I have no desire to return home. Father does not like it when I wander. I cannot imagine he worries something might happen to me. More likely he wants people to see the least of me as possible, lest I do something that shines badly on him, or flaunts our less than desirable social class.

I am wandering near the bakery when I hear another voice call out: "Hey, Jackson!"

This time a slight smile plays on my lips as I turn. A small boy still not yet eligible for the reaping skids to a halt beside me, his brown hair tousled and messy. "Hermes," I say. "Father let you leave?" Most likely he sent my brother to fetch me, to bring me back home. I sigh inwardly.

Hermes grins. "No, he's still sleeping. No work today, remember? I don't expect he'll wake up until noon. Mother's up, but you know she's less up tight about these sorts of things."

I snort. "Agreed. Well, why did you come out here? It's hardly nice out."

"I just wanted to be with you before the reaping," he admits.

"Oh, so you think I'll get reaped?"

Hermes frowns. "I never said that."

I shrug. "Maybe that wouldn't be so horrible, though. I'd get away from Father, and maybe he wouldn't be too disappointed either. I mean, if I win, we automatically become some of the richest people in the district."

"But you could die."

I wince. "Well, yeah. And there's that."

* * *

**District 6 Female: Blaesa Sparc, 15**

* * *

With each passing moment the reaping draws nearer, and it becomes more difficult to listen to Ala speak. We are jostled by an older girl rushing to her section, and I glare after her, my irritability only intensified by the adrenaline already pumping through me. For a moment I almost hope it is she who is reaped. She can't possibly be of much use here in the district, shoving people out of the way right and left.

"I only ever start to get nervous the night before," Ala is saying. "I can never sleep well that night, and then the morning passes impossibly quickly. It's always the worst right before, in those few seconds when she's holding the paper but hasn't yet read out the name."

"I don't have that many entries," I say. Indeed, many of the kids younger than me have far more entries than I do. Never am I more glad that I am in the middle class. Nearly all tributes chosen are from the poorest families. My chances of being reaped are astronomical.

"Well, I do," Ala says. "I have twenty." She gives a long-suffering sigh. "My brother aged out, so he can't take any, and my little sister only had to cry a bit, so now Mom and Dad won't let me give any of it to her."

Ala wouldn't last long in the arena, maybe a few days at the most, but her sister wouldn't stand a chance. Nor would many of the twelve- and thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds with nearly as many entries as her. But I say nothing.

The Mayor begins reading the Treaty of Treason, and Ala is quiet at last. When the escort approaches the microphone, I have forgotten her presence, and the presence of the teenagers around me. I have ears only for the clear voice of the escort, the crisp pace of her shoes as she chooses the female name.

The next few moments at once last an eternity and pass in the blink of an eye. And then a name is ringing out, and I hear it but I do not hear it. My ears have never let me down before, but they cannot possibly be correct this time, because the name echoing through the square is my own.

I want to cry out to release the terror penned within me, but my voice catches in my throat. This is not fair. It's supposed to be the poor children who are reaped, the children who line up every month on the steps of the Justice Building to receive their grain. Not me, not a girl who has only walked the steps of the Justice Building on the annual field trip.

My vision blurs, and the crowd has become but a smear of faces, black and white and every shade in between, as if I am no longer wearing my glasses. My face is wet when I reach the escort, and I can only hope it is only my face.

I am leaving, and I am never coming back.

* * *

**District 6 Male: Jackson Ford, 14**

* * *

The first name pulled is that of a girl a year older than me. She has dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses behind which her eyes are red with tears. I feel a sudden pang of sorrow for her. She did not ask for this to happen any more than I asked for this morning to be as cold as it was. Perhaps she had a comfortable life here in District Six, one that it would break her to leave.

But I don't think too much about it. You almost get used to it, in a horrible way, the yearly loss of two children. It hurts, but you accept it, because it has always happened and it always will.

It is time to pick the male tribute. I have more entries than I would like, as is what happens when you are raised in the section of the district where the pavement is cracked and the people hollow-cheeked. But it is a chance I am happy to take, to trade food for a slightly inflated chance of leaving the district, and Father.

Next year Hermes will be eligible, but this year he is safe, and of that I am glad. He is tough, but the arena would destroy him. My being reaped would do that as well, I realize. I find him in the crowd and give him a reassuring wink. Hopefully it will dispel some of his fear.

The escort chooses the second name. "Our male tribute is - Jackson Ford!"

My eyes flash back to Hermes. My brother is staring at me, wide-eyed. His face pales visibly. Mother is at his shoulder. She searches the crowd, but does not find me.

For a moment I just stand there, shocked. And then I see Father in the crowd, grim-faced, a look of displeasure in his eye that I know all too well, and I realize that I will be leaving him. No more cringing as he sends me a biting glare, no more anticipation of his fury when I return home. I will truly and finally be leaving him.

But Hermes' words from this morning hold true. I could die, and indeed the odds of it are overwhelming. My brother's warning echoing in my mind, I walk to the stage.

* * *

**A/N: Mm, not my best writing. I'll be making the reaping chapters shorter. Hopefully we should get through them more quickly this way, but RL has insisted on taking up much of my free time recently, so there's no guarantee. **

**The usual questions: How did you like Blaesa and Jackson? Any predictions on their success? **


	8. District 7 Reaping

**District 7**

**0957 hours Capitol Standard Time**

* * *

**District 7 female: Acacia Aspén, 18**

* * *

I have always loved the woods. I have worked with the district's many lumberjacks since I was sixteen, but even before that I was constantly trecking through the trees, sometimes swinging an axe in my older years.

Contrary to what many believe, there is not much forest within the borders of District Seven, though I expect far more than in any other district. The majority of our logging takes place far beyond the fence. Every morning the lumberjacks will be lead through one of the great gates in groups of forty or fifty. They will disperse into the woods and return that evening lugging carts full of lumber to be stripped and assembled the next day. Well, every morning except for one.

The woods are silent but for the calls of the birds. We have an amazing assembly of fowl, but not nearly as diverse as those living in the forests beyond the fence. I wallow in their songs and try not to think about the impending reaping. I'm not particularly worried - I'm hardly rich, but I haven't taken too much tesserae - but I shudder to think of what will happen if it _is_ my name called.

A gong sounds in the distance. It rings again, and again, until it reaches ten. It is ten in the morning. The reaping is only forty-five minutes away. The feeling of liberation that abounds beyond the fence is never present to the same degree within the borders of District Seven. No matter where you are, if you are not past the fence you can hear the clock at the center of the district chime out the time and remember the great fence encircling you.

I hear footsteps approaching, treading lightly through the leaves.

"Acacia?" I turn around just in time to see Father duck under a low hanging branch. His face breaks into a broad smile when he sees me. "I've been looking for you for ages. Your mother said you'd gone out, but all I knew was that you'd stick to the forests."

I smile. "You were right. Am I wanted back at the house?"

"No," he says. "I just wanted to spend some time with you before the reaping." His voice falters at the last words, and he doesn't quite meet my eyes.

For the first time I wonder what it will be like for Father to go to work without me for the first time in years. Since I joined the lumberjacks I have worked alongside him, walking through the forests and hauling carts of lumber with him. It will be an awful blow to him if I am reaped, and to Mother, too. But of course, I will suffer more than either of them.

But the odds of that are beyond slim, and this is what I tell Father. "I haven't taken much tesserae," I say. "I only have twenty-one entries, which might seem like a lot, but some of my classmates have over forty. Even Maria has thirty-five."

"I always thought I'd be the one reassuring you before the reaping, but now it's the other way around," Father says, smiling wryly.

"Well, you've always been a worrier," I say, grinning back. "And to be honest, I should have taken more just one more tessera, so there would be one for each of us. I understand why Mother objected, but we could have used the extra grain."

Father sighs. "Your mother just wants the best for you," he says. "When you were younger, a tessera entry just meant a slip or two more, but now each is worth seven entries. It's just not worth the risk."

I shrug. "Food is food."

Father gestures for me to follow him, and we start off again. For a few minutes we walk in silence. Father steers us back towards our house. The woods become more and more familiar. I recognize the bent-over tree I picnicked by not long ago, the sapling Father and I planted a few months back. Usually the woods relax me, but now I find my pulse quickening, and my every thought is about the reaping.

Father's hand closes around mind, and he whispers a reminder in my ear: it will not be me.

* * *

**District 7 male: Levi Dornan, 17**

* * *

My mother's locket rests in my palm, the chain snaking around my fingers. I slide my finger down the side, searching for the clasp, and pry the locket open. There is a small hiss as it opens, as if it is breathing.

The picture on the left was taken seven years ago, when I was ten. I still remember that day, when Father lined us up on the porch and raised his camera to his eye. I am standing in the very front, smiling the smile of a carefree child who knows no hardship, an upper-class boy for whom the stress of the reaping is still years away. Standing just behind me, his hands on my shoulders, is Gabriel, my eldest brother, who was eighteen at the time. To my left is Mother, and to my right are my sisters, Lydia and Othelia, who were twelve and fifteen at the time respectively.

Sometimes I long for that time, when we were rich from Father's lumber factory, and we did not have to watch helplessly as our money slowly trickled down the drain.

The picture on the right is black and white. It was taken before I was born, in the days when color cameras were not available for even the highest prices in the stores of District Seven. The man in the picture has curly brown hair the very image of my own, but his brown eyes are kinder and far more gentle than my own. Father was a good man, a kind man who did all he could to help his family. But fate is cruel. When I was eleven his lumber facility exploded, and all inside were killed. Our family has not been the same since.

Lost in my memories, I don't hear Lydia approaching. I start when she appears at my shoulder. She says nothing, only steadies my hand and gazes down at the pictures. Her demeanor is grim, and I can almost feel the sorrow rolling off her in waves.

Finally Lydia speaks. "Don't dwell on the past," she says. "Not today. We have enough to worry about." She pries the locket from my fingers and shuts it carefully before placing it in my palm.

"How can I not?" I ask, gesturing to my black reaping suit, which Father bought for me just before he died. Needless to say it didn't fit then, as I had barely reached five feet, but now it fits perfectly.

Lydia touches the fabric, smiling sadly. "I remember the day he brought this back for you. It was your eleventh birthday. You were less than pleased. You weren't too fond of formal clothing, if I remember correctly."

"It chafes," I agree, my lip quirking.

A flash of white catches my eye. Lydia raises her hand and I see that she is holding a pure white flower, I cannot tell what kind. She pins it to the pocket of my suit. "I found it in the forest," she says. "There was a small ring of them growing at the base of a pine tree. I've never seen them before."

I smile. "You know, they say you're not supposed to pick from rings of flowers." My words are in jest, but for some reason I feel a small rush of apprehension.

"Oh, that's right," she says, laughing. "If the faeries get mad, tell them I apologize. In the meantime, wear it for good luck, okay?"

"Obliged."

* * *

**1043 hours**

* * *

**District 7 female: Acacia Asp****én, 18**

* * *

Maria is much quieter than usual. We stand together in the front section of the square, watching the eligibles and onlookers trickle in. Every face we see is grim. Even the youngest children can sense the somber atmosphere. The square is crowded but quiet save for low murmurs and the occasional whine of a child.

"What are you thinking about?" I murmur to Maria.

"What do you think I'm thinking about?" she says irritably. "There's not much to think about at the moment, is there?" Her voice is shaky, and her fear is evident. I glance over at her. Her gaze has settled on a small girl of five or six years saying a tearful goodbye to a boy in the section behind us. "They're lucky bastards, aren't they?" she says. "I miss the days when I could stand at the back of the square and not worry about a thing."

"This is our last year," I remind her. "After this, no more reaping. Ever."

Maria laughs bitterly. "Oh, but there will be. It'll be another ten years before my brother ages out, and by that point I'll probably already have kids. My carefree years are long over, Acacia."

I can't deny the truth in her words, so I don't respond.

Maria usually has an endless stream of things to say, but her mouth remains closed for the entire duration of the Mayor's speech, and she doesn't even mutter a snide comment when the Capitol escort, Sophie, takes the stage. Sophie is probably only of medium height, but her shoes must give her five extra inches. She has a mane of red hair, the tips of which are dyed bright green.

"Hello, District Seven!" she says enthusiastically. "It's that time of year, yet again! I don't know about you all, but if the hype in the Capitol is anything to judge by, I'm sure you just can't wait for this year's Games!"

I snort, and Maria rolls her eyes at me. The crowd's response must be less overwhelming than Sophie expected, because she only blinks owlishly at us for several seconds.

"Oh, come on, how about some _enthusiasm_?" she says, smiling expectantly. "This is a _ceremony_, and I don't know about you, but I'm definitely looking forward to celebrating with cake afterwards with our two lucky winners. Now, on that subject, who will those winners be?" She grins and tosses her hair over her shoulder, then approaches the first bowl.

I watch her carefully as she chooses a slip and returns to the microphone. Adrenaline flows through me, more than I remember there being any other year.

"Our female contestant is...Acacia Aspén!"

* * *

**District 7 male: Levi Dornan, 17**

* * *

The girl is tall, with brown eyes and long, straight dark brown hair. She has the same muscular, athletic build as my sisters, which says that she too must work as a lumberjack. Her face is carefully schooled into a neutral expression that I am sure will fool much of her competition as well as the Capitol, but I see through it. She is scared. Very scared. As she should be.

I watch in disgust as Sophie goes over to meet her. She pulls Acacia into a quick hug, then pushes her in front of the microphone.

"Any words to say to the crowd?" she asks.

Acacia only stands there, her eyes skimming the crowd. They latch onto someone, and she seems to calm. Her lips part ever so slightly, as if to say something, but she clamps them shut again and steps away, crossing her arms impatiently. Sophie eyes her, looking more than a little slighted.

Capitolites are strange, but our escort has never failed to irritate me. Perhaps it is her unceasing enthusiasm, or her belief that District Seven is a replica of the Capitol in our people and demeanor, or perhaps it is just the high pitched squeak she calls a voice.

"They should get along just fine," my friend Rowan whispers to me. I smirk and nod in agreement, feeling the knot in my stomach loosen slightly. Rowan can have that effect on me. His father died in the same accident as mine, and he understands me nearly as much as my siblings.

"Too bad they don't broadcast footage from the train," I whisper back. "I suppose there's always this tension, though. I mean, the escort did just choose them to die."

"She looks like she might have a chance," Rowan says, nodding up at Acacia. "Not much of a chance, of course, but more than any of our four from last year. Three from the slums and one upper-class kid who'd never missed a meal in her life, didn't really set us up for a good year."

On the stage, Sophie prances over to the boy's bowl and reaches in. Her hand seems to linger there for minutes before she finally snags a slip. I am expecting her to take her time unfolding it and walking back to the microphone, so I am surprised when she reads it aloud immediately: "Levi Dornan!"

It hits me like a sledgehammer. I go stiff, wondering if I've misheard - but no, Rowan is turning to me, horrified. My heart pounding, I take my dearest friend in my arms and hold him tight. I extract myself and walk slowly down the aisle, a silent tear running down my face. I think of Mother, of Gabriel, Lydia and Othelia, of Rowan, beautiful Rowan, who has been my close companion for years.

When I reach the stage, I try to push all thoughts of my family and friends from my mind. I must appear strong, else I will get no sponsors and be truly alone in the arena. I compose myself, but then my eyes land on Rowan again, and my sadness and fear rise again. I am leaving him, and everyone else. I am leaving them, perhaps forever.

No. I have to win. And maybe I will win. But I must be strong. I lift my eyes from Rowan and stare straight ahead, a perfect specimen for the Capitol.

* * *

**A/N: Happy Memorial Day weekend. I have no school on Monday, but I'm going away for a few days, so I won't be able to write. **

**Anyways, what did you think of Acacia and Levi? How do you think each of them will do?**

**For all the tributes so far-  
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**Thanks for reading, and please review!**


	9. District 8 Reaping

**District Eight**

**0723 hours Lowlands Standard Time**

* * *

**District 8 female: Terrance "Terra" Rusk, 18**

* * *

There is a soft weight in my arms. Light tufts of hair brush against my cheek, and there is a sweet scent in the air, the scent of a child newly bathed, the scent of a child close to my heart. I open my eyes and take in Emmett's young face still flushed with sleep. He is slight of frame, not nearly the weight a child his age should be, and certainly not a child in the middle class, even in District Eight.

It is not that we do not have the money for food. Father has a well-paying job, and the money he brings in would be more than enough to keep our family of four running smoothly. But Father's priorities are weighted, and not in my favor, nor in Emmett's.

Emmett is beginning to stir. He rolls onto his back, pressing his small clenched fists into the mattress, yawning widely. He opens his blue-green eyes, which rove the ceiling for several seconds before settling on me.

"Good morning," I whisper, bending over to draw him into a hug. He protests and tries to squirm away, but I wrap my arms around him, holding him immobile. "You're not gonna get away from me," I croon. "Never ever."

"Lemme go, Terra!" Emmett squeals. "You're suffocating me!"

I only grin and hold him tighter, and his squeals escalate. I'm about to poke him in the belly when I hear footsteps approaching outside. Our heads snap up in unison as the door opens. Father stands there, grim-faced and irritated.

"Terra!" he hisses. "Keep it down! Your mother is sleeping! Let your brother go, and keep him quiet!"

The door closes again, and I glare after him. As the months pass he makes it all the more clear that Emmett and I are only impediments. We're loud, we get in the way, and we use up money, when he's in a good enough mood to spend any on us, which is practically never. I have funded or food for the past year, using the little money I get from my job.

Emmett has stopped squirming. He is an energetic child, has always been, but he knows not to get too rambunctious in the mornings. Mother needs her sleep, and neither of us wants to wake her. I have a feeling she is on his mind, and after a moment he proves me right.

"Terra?" the four-year-old asks, twisting around in my lap to gaze up at me, his eyes wide and trusting. "I want to see Mother."

"Do you now?" I say. "I believe that can be arranged. But not until we eat breakfast, okay?" I get to my feet and scoop him up in my arms, smiling at his giggle. We leave the room, and I carry him down the hall.

I remove the cereal box from the small cupboard in which I store our food, and pour two bowls. Emmett finishes his bowl within the minute and immediately asks for seconds, but I remind him that we haven't the money for any more than one serving each morning. He stares longingly at the cupboard until I finish my bowl.

We return to our bedroom, but double back when we hear Mother stirring. Emmett opens the door, and I follow him into the room. Mother lies on the bed, her sickly pale skin hanging in folds about her. She is painfully thin, as if none of of the food Father has bought her has been absorbed at all. Her eyes, once a rich brown, are faded and dull. She sickened only last year at around this time, and since then our lives have been turned upside down. She is Father's primary concern - his only concern.

Mother squints up at me. Her right eye wavers, but her left stares right at me. Her lips curl into a faint smile. "Terra," she says hoarsely.

"Mother." I smile and gently lower myself onto the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Her smile fades. "Bad. Worse." She looks worse, too, but I don't tell her that. I feel a pang of fear looking at her. From the doctors' estimate she has only a few months left to live, but at times I am not sure she will even achieve that.

"It's like I'm fading," she says, her voice getting softer. "Like I'm not quite here. It doesn't hurt. I can't feel anything anymore. It's worse like this, Terra, it hurts all the more..."

I clasp her hand in mine. I say nothing. What is there to say? 'Just a little longer, Mother, you'll be dead in a few months'? She knows the disease will kill her, and nothing I say can change that.

"Reaping," Mother says suddenly.

I wince. "Don't worry about me," I say. "I'll be fine. I only have...twenty-one entries..."

Emmett looks up at me, suddenly horrified, and I know why, because the same horror now floods me. If I am reaped, what will happen to him? Mother cannot care for him, and Father will not. Sammy will take him in. He is not just my boyfriend any longer but my fiancée. It has long been our agreement that once I came of age we would marry and live together with Emmett. Sammy will not let Emmett die.

But I won't be reaped. Sammy's name was in the bowl twenty-one times last year, and he was not chosen, and nor will I be. I smile reassuringly at Emmett and hug him tight.

* * *

**District 8 male: Ralin Adano, 17**

* * *

It's amazing what one can forget when they put their mind to it. For weeks now I have trained my mind to automatically redirect elsewhere when the reaping enters my thoughts. It never leaves entirely, of course, but it will stay submerged until it is forced again to surface. The night before the reaping my dreams are no more memorable than those of any other night, and when I get up I get out my factory uniform as I would any other morning.

It's Calicia who brings me to reality. My six-year-old sister is curled up in the corner of our bedroom, paper and precious crayons in hand, humming an old District Eight folk song to herself. The ends of her raven black hair tickle her paper, but she doesn't bother to brush them aside. I am about to go to the bathroom to change when she looks up.

"Why're you wearing that?" she asks curiously. "It's ugly. You can't wear something ugly today, Ralin." Her tone is disapproving, but there is a hint of amusement.

I blink and look down at my uniform. It's a dull beige, shapeless suit probably made for the sole purpose of forcing low-class workers to buy another pair of clothing. I have never been overly fond of it, but don't quite see what's wrong with it. I give Calicia a questioning look. "Sorry?"

The six-year-old crosses her arms, exasperated. "It's reaping day, Ralin," she says, stretching out the words. "Big square, fancy Capitol lady, television show Mother and Father don't let me watch? Everyone at school watches it. It's not fair. I know there's blood, but I'm big enough to see it! I'm not a little kid!"

"Oh," I say. "Oh." In only seconds all my energy seeps away, and I slump against the wall. Reaping day, of course. I cannot ignore it any longer. It has sneaked up on me, and now I am staring it in the face.

"So, what are you going to wear?" Calicia asks. "I'm wearing this." She points at the chair in front of her desk, upon which a bright green sundress is draped. "I was going to wear it last year, too, but it was really cold, and Mother made me wear _leggings_." She says the word with particular distaste.

I return to my closet and pick out a white shirt and denim pants. Calicia eyes them in disapproval, but says nothing.

I change into my reaping clothes, then return to the room. Calicia is still drawing. She does not acknowledge my return. I kneel beside her and lift a lock of her hair so I can see her drawing.

The picture depicts a street of District Eight, a long row of buildings with the puffing smokestacks of a factory in the background. I have drawn similar scenes before, but only ever with pencils, for in my mind the scene deserves no color: it is gray, it is grim. The only color in the district comes from our textiles, nearly all of which are shipped to the Capitol.

But unlike any of mine, Calicia's drawing has all the colors of the rainbow, or at least all the colors clenched in her fist. The buildings are brick red, the factory is a rich brown, and the silvery smoke blends beautifully with the light blue sky.

Calicia finishes drawing a small figure in a green dress, a reflection of herself no doubt. She looks up at me. "Do you like it?" she asks hopefully.

"It's wonderful," I say, smiling warmly at her. "You should draw more. You're excellent at it."

Her face lights up. "Really?"

"Really."

Calicia goes back to her drawing, adding in other figures. Next to the little girl in the green dress there is a taller figure, wearing not my typical beige uniform but a steel gray shirt the same color as my eyes. Holding my hand is another girl about my height. I do not need to ask to know who it is: Susan, my girlfriend.

Calicia stops at looks at me again. "We're walking to the reaping," she says solemnly. "And later we're going to come back here."

"I hope so," I say softly, looking at the three small figures in the picture. "I hope so."

* * *

Susan and I stand in the aisle separating the boys from the girls. Our hands are clasped together, our fingers intertwined, relishing our last few moments before the reaping. It was not in my mind to talk, but Susan does not let me wallow in my nerves.

"It'll be fine," she says, confident as always. "It'll be just like last year, and the year before that. Both of the kids will be low-class, with mountains of tesserae, thirty plus entries. But who knows? We may even have a volunteer."

My lips tug into a small smile. "Perhaps."

"That would be nice," Susan says. "Maybe we'll even win this year. We haven't had a victor since the thirty-eighth Games."

"Why are we talking about this?" I ask, my anger rising, but not at her. "Why should we have to talk about this? It's summer, Susan, the brightest time of year, the warmest season. You can even see flowers if you get far enough away from the city. But instead of enjoying it, we're standing here in a square full of terrified teenagers, talking about a fight to the death. We weren't even alive during the Dark Days! It's just not fair."

Susan looks behind her, her brow knitting worriedly. I tense as I too realize what could happen should my words be overheard, but there are none around us but eligibles clinging together and parents bidding tearful goodbyes to their children. Peacekeepers clad in white flank the stage and stand at all the entrances to the square, but none are near enough to have heard me.

Susan exhales, her shoulders curling forward as if the weight of the world has been lowered onto them. "It's _not_ fair," she agrees. "It was never fair, nor is it meant to be. But there's nothing to be done about that. All we can do is survive this year and next."

The minute hand on the clock mounted on the Justice Building approaches the twelve at the top of the clock. Twelve loud gongs announce that it is noon. I clasp Susan's hand even tighter, and murmur final well wishes in her ear. She gives me a quick kiss, then steps into her section.

The Mayor's speech is over far too quickly. The minutes leading up to the selection are always horrible, but you never want them to end, because the moments after they do are worse than any others. The escort, Martha, replaces the Mayor at the podium, and greets us with her usual cheer.

I don't listen to her empty greetings. I only open my ears in time to hear the first name.

"Terrance Rusk!" Martha announces.

It's not Susan. I sigh in relief, as do many others, girls and boys alike, but no one emerges. Martha repeats the name, squinting out at the crowd. After several seconds, she motions to the Peacekeepers with a small nod, and they start towards the eighteen-year-olds' section.

The girl they drag out is tall and thin, with raven-black hair. Her face is slack with shock and horror. The Peacekeepers dump her on the stage, and she struggles to her feet, seeming to come to reality at last. Her blue-green eyes blaze with anger, and she lets out a short laugh devoid of any mirth.

"Excellent," Martha says. "Now, for the boy." She sweeps over to the bowl and draws a slip. She unfolds it without delay and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, our male tribute is...Ralin Adano!"

Every muscle in my body stiffens involuntarily. My heart rate doubles, and adrenaline pumps through me, but I force my face to remain expressionless. I must not show weakness. I am strong. I must be strong. For if I am not, I will die.

* * *

**District 8 female: Terrance "Terra" Rusk, 18**

* * *

I am still reeling with shock when the Peacekeepers escort me from the stage. I could not care less about leaving Father, and I am sure he feels the same about me; I saw him turning to return home when the reaping concluded. But I will miss Mother's last few months, and worse, I will have to leave Sammy and Emmett.

The Peacekeepers lead me to a large, plush room. The walls are decorated with ornately framed portraits of past presidents. I sit stiffly on the velvet couch, my back straight as a rod, trying and failing to hold back the tears. Will anyone come to bid me farewell, or will I sit here alone and forgotten until again the Peacekeepers come to fetch me?

No. They could not have forgotten me. I hear a young woman talking frantically in the room next to mine, no doubt a friend of the male tribute. But my door remains closed.

After several long, painstaking minutes, the door finally opens, and Emmett rushes in. He runs towards me, and I sweep him up in my arms and bury my tearstreaked face in his neck. I breathe in his familiar scent, wondering if it is the last time I will ever see him. My situation hits me hard again, and I hug Emmett even tighter.

"Terra," a soft voice says. I look up. Sammy stands beside me, his eyes sorrowful.

"Sammy," I say, choking up. "You came."

"Of course I came," he says. "How could I not? I love you, Terra. This is the worst..." His voice breaks, and a tear rolls down his cheek. "There - there's something I have to say," he continues, reaching out to brush a tear from my cheek. His hand lingers by my face, cupping my cheek.

I blink in confusion. "What...what do you mean?"

Sammy reaches into his pocket and draws something out, his fingers closed over it. He begins to speak, but his voice catches in his throat. He tries again, and this time manages to get out the words: "Terrance Rusk...I would like to ask your hand in marriage." He opens his hand, and in his palm lies a ring. He takes my hand and slides it onto my finger, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Sammy..." I stare down at the ring.

"You have to win," he says, his voice nearly inaudible. "For me. Please."

I look at him, and a new determination rises within me. "I will. I promise."

* * *

**A/N: I have finals coming up, so I don't know when I'll be able to update again. I don't have the concentration to study for long periods of time, though, so I'll very likely use this to procrastinate. **

**A big thank you to JGrayzz, who has volunteered to make a blog for this story. The link is on my profile. Check it out and tell me what you think of each of the tributes. **

**Thoughts on Terra and Ralin? **


	10. District 9 Reaping

**District 9 **

**1009 hours Lowlands Standard Time**

* * *

**District 9 female: Arable Tillage, 14**

* * *

As usual, it is I who Mother appoints to cook breakfast. Over the years I have assumed the role of the family cook, as Mother claims she hasn't the time and Father does his best to avoid her. My elder siblings, Nettie and Ashton, used to cook, but when they became teenagers four and three years ago respectively, Mother insisted they take on jobs of their own, and responsibility of the kitchen fell to me. I am a very good cook, though Mother never stoops so low as to tell me so, so I do not see myself getting a job anytime soon.

Today it is omlette on the menu. When I bring the serving plate to the table, everyone is already seated. Mother sits at the head of the table, tapping her foot impatiently. Father sits across from her, staring at his clasped hands. Nettie and Ashton sit together on one side, and on the other side sit my younger brothers, Flor and Edward. My chair is pushed to the corner of the table.

I set the platter down on the table and cross my arms, looking at the younger boys. "You do realize we have to fit three chairs here, don't you?" I say, exasperated. "Move over. Whoever set up the chairs really needs to learn a thing or two about division of space..."

Nettie takes a bite of her omlette. "It's good," she says, and I brighten.

Mother looks down at her plate in distaste. "It has no taste," she tells me. "Didn't I tell you to put salt in?"

"We're out," I mutter, not meeting her eyes. I had searched the cupboards up and down, hating to have to serve incomplete food, but had found none.

"Looks like you'll have to go to the market," Mother says. "Ashton, you go with her."

Ashton begins to protest, but she cuts him off with a swift look. He gives me a long suffering look, and I resist the urge to poke my tongue out at him.

We finish our omlettes and change for the reaping. I wear a plain gray skirt and a white blouse, which like all of my clothes were Nettie's a few years ago. When I go to put my sandals on, Ashton is already waiting by the door, wearing slacks and a dress shirt with a bright blue tie.

"You should change your tie," I say as we walk outside. "It doesn't go well with your shirt, and besides, it's ugly."

"Ugly?" Ashton feigns a hurt expression, but before I get the chance to respond a loud roar echoes from down the street. I glance questioningly at Ashton, but he just shrugs, a grin flitting momentarily onto his face. He breaks into a sprint, and I follow him as quickly as I can in my skirt.

A crowd has formed on the pavilion the next street over. A few years ago they constructed a gallows here, and all hangings have since taken place here, and indeed that seems to be what today's commotion is about. At the front of the crowd, two Peacekeepers are dragging a struggling man towards the gallows. I recognize him. He is a homeless tramp who has wandered around District Nine for years, sometimes begging for money, sometimes stealing it.

"Another public menace charge?" Ashton guesses as they slip the noose over the man's head. The man bellows again, but this time the sound is swallowed by the cheering of the crowd.

Now below the man's feet there is only air. He kicks wildly, reaching out for the ground several feet below. His face goes red, his face contorting, gasping for breath. The cheering escalates.

Hangings and other forms of execution are commonplace in District Nine. They may once have bothered me, but today I am unfazed by the soon-to-be corpse swinging from the gallows. My only ill feelings are from trepidation about the impending reaping.

"He should have gotten a job," I state matter-of-factly. "There's nothing for you, living on the streets."

Ashton arches his eyebrow at me, but simply says, "The market."

We weave through the thick crowd and leave the pavilion. Within the minute all thoughts of the hanging have left my mind. The gallows are replaced by two large bowls, one containing three pieces of paper on which 'Arable Tillage' is written in my semi-legible scrawl. There could be nothing worse than if my name is chosen, of that I am certain.

I have taken no tesserae, so I have as few slips as I could possibly have, but if I am reaped, I will be just like the man on the gallows: the sturdy ground gone from beneath my feet, hanging helplessly, the timer on my life ticking steadily down to the final moments.

* * *

**District 9 male: Donny Ichor, 16**

* * *

The book almost seems to glow in the soft, golden early-morning light. I run my fingers lightly over the golden cover, tracing the green letters embossed upon it: _Alice in Wonderland_. Of the many books on the bookshelf beside my bed, this is by far my favorite. I have always treasured fantasy books the most, but there is something about the magic of Alice's tale that cannot be found in any other.

I open the book and leaf through the old, brittle pages until I come to a picture of a plump rabbit wearing a suit and a strange hat. Of all the characters, he must be my favorite. It is from him that my affection for rabbits has blossomed. I have read the book too many times to count, but today I only flip through the pictures.

Fifteen minutes later, I have finished scouring each of the pictures, and have to my disappointment confirmed that the shadow in the final picture is that of a purse, not a rabbit. I carefully close the book and lay it on my bedside table, resolving to begin yet another reading of it tonight. Humming a random tune to myself, I amble over to the closet, where my many clothes are hanging, neat and pressed.

My clothing style is unusual, from what I've seen, if not downright odd. I never wear the t-shirts and shorts found on the other kids at school. The only clothes in my closet are pants and button-down tunics of varying neutral colors. Father says I should call them suits, but whenever one of my classmates inquires as to what I'm wearing, usually in bemusement or amusement, tunic is always the word I use, along with an explanation of when and how I acquired it, because they did ask.

I dress too formally according to Father. He wants me to conform, to be "normal", whatever that means. I know I'm not normal. I don't know if something is wrong with me. I don't know why I'm different. All I know is that I'm Donny, and to "conform" would be to change everything I am.

Today's tunic is white, with small black buttons extending all the way to the hem just above my knees. My pants are black, and their neat creases say they were just under the iron.

Someone knocks lightly on my bedroom door.

"Hello!" I call.

The door opens, and Mother pokes her head through. "Hey. I was just making sure you're awake."

"I'm awake."

"I can see that. Breakfast is in ten minutes. It's corncakes, and your father is making bacon." She smiles, but her eyes search my face as they do when she is worried. Maybe she is thinking about the reaping. A lot of people worry about it, even though the chances of any one child being chosen are tiny, even if they do take heaps of tesserae. And me, I only have five entries.

Breakfast is delicious. Mother made corncakes, and Father has prepared a large plate of bacon, though we are only three. He is a butcher, and meat is always plentiful in our house. Everything is plentiful in our house.

After breakfast, I return to my room and begin reading _Alice in Wonderland_ again. I stop when I reach the picture of her sitting at the base of a tree amidst the flowers, an idea suddenly occurring to me: Only a few days ago, a woman who lived across the street from me died of a heart attack. Her family had been affluent, sitting in the upper middle class, but with her gone surely they must be in a crisis. But I could help them, even in a small way.

I put on my boots and go out the back door into the garden. I kneel beside the flowerbushes and select a creamy purple tulip and a few small primroses. Then I walk to the main street and carefully place the flowers on the family's doorstep. They will not be able to spend their money on flowers. Maybe these will cheer them up.

I see a boy watching me from the window, his eyebrows knit in bewildered curiosity. I point at the flowers, then give him a grin and a wave and head away down the street. He will not understand why I did what I did, that is for certain. I doubt anyone will. They do not understand when I try to help. I find it amusing, but sometimes it makes me almost sad.

She's waiting for me by the entrance to the square, wearing a checkered red and white dress, her red hair in two braids. I know she's not _the_ Alice, but she's the only Alice in the district, that I know of at least, so she's the closest we have got. I give her my trademark grin and small wave, and hurry to her side.

"Hello!" I say.

Alice's blue eyes meet mine, and a small giggle slips through her lips. "Hello, Donny," she says. "How are you?"

"It's reaping day," I tell her.

Her smile fades. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"Did you - did you take tesserae?" I ask, stumbling a bit over the words.

"I did," Alice says. "Not much, but I didn't really have a choice. Not everyone is lucky as you, you know."

I nod. "Oh, yes, I know."

Alice's smile returns, albeit somewhat muted, and she giggles again. I grin back at her. There's something about her that I have always been drawn to, though I've never been able to pinpoint exactly what. She's different from the others, that much is obvious, though they don't see her as a freak, as they do me. She's just Alice, and that's enough to make her special.

Her blue eyes roam around the street, but I can't see what it is she is looking at. For a minute I just watch her curiously, my head tilted to the side. When it becomes clear she isn't planning on moving, I say, "Aren't you going to come into the square? It's almost time." I tap my watch lightly and look at her expectantly.

"Oh, not yet," Alice replies breezily, a smile flitting onto her face. "I'm still watching them. The Peacekeepers. It's funny what people overlook. I was thinking, it must be horrible, having to wear those uniforms sixteen hours a day, regardless of heat. Look at them, Donny. They're itchy, and they're really hot." She giggles again.

I watch the nearest Peacekeeper, who is shepherding eligible teenagers towards the square, barking out orders in a voice tinted with a strange accent. For the first time I notice how he scratches under his visor and hikes up his sleeves every few seconds. I can't hold back the snicker.

I turn back to Alice. "I'm going in. I will see you after the reaping?"

She smiles and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "If you say so."

* * *

**District 9 female: Arable Tillage, 14**

* * *

When the Mayor begins her speech, I seek out Ashton in the crowd. My brother is standing with the other sixteen-year-old boys, two sections ahead of me. As if feeling my gaze, he turns around. His brown eyes latch onto mine, and he gives me a reassuring smile.

_Don't worry_, he mouths, but there is tension in his face.

I look away, flustered and embarrassed. He thinks I am scared. No - he _knows_ I am scared. And if after the reaping I tell him I was not, he will give me a knowing grin and some sarcastic comment. And when I tell him that behavior does not suit him, he will simply roll his eyes and turn away.

The Mayor finishes reading the Treaty of Treason, and she retreats back to the seats, allowing the escort to approach the microphone. The escort is a pudgy, vertically challenged man with long hair styled into multicolored spikes on his head, giving him the appearance of a tie-dyed porcupine. When I see him my heart races with fear and loathing, and my mind is thrust back a year to my second reaping.

The girl's name was Talia, and we had been friends since we started school eight years before. She was sweet and kind and smart, the best friend one could ask for. When the escort called her name, she went rigid at my side, swaying slightly, grasping my hand tight as if it could somehow anchor her here, to District Nine. But the Peacekeepers came for her and dragged her kicking and screaming to the stage. One week later the gong signaled the start of the Games. She grabbed a backpack, but as she turned to run she tripped over a metal pedestal. The Career found her before she could rise.

"As you know, it's my second year choosing your tributes," the escort says. "I never thought I'd be saying this, but if anything I'm even more excited for this year than I was for the last!"

_I'm sure you are_, I think bitterly. _You killed her, you bastard. You started it, it's all your fault. You killed her_.

He chooses the boy first. I stare at the Ashton standing in the sixteen-year-olds' section. My heart skips a beat when the name is read and all heads swivel towards him, but it's the boy next to him who moves.

It's Donny, I realize, the odd rich kid who no one can figure out. Ashton talks about him sometimes, laughing about something he said or something he wore. I stare at his odd clothing. It's not quite a suit; he wears no tie and the shirt goes nearly to his knees. Someone behind me laughs, but more in bewilderment than mirth.

Donny reaches the stage and shakes the escort's hand enthusiastically. Then he turns to the crowd and gives us a small, quick wave, flashing us a grin.

"Excellent!" the escort says. "Now, for the girl."

Before I know it he has the second slip in his hand, and I don't have time to hope it's not me before he's reading it aloud, enunciating each syllable with horrible clarity: "Arable Tillage!"

I can't breathe. My blouse feels like it is compressing my chest. Suddenly the girls surrounding me feel far too close, and I realize just how penned in I am, and I want to shove them aside and run, run until everyone is gone and District Nine's fields and fences are only a distant memory.

But I can't run away. Peacekeepers guard every exit, and several more are already making their way down the aisle towards me. I have no way to escape. I am going into the arena.

I try to hold the tears back until my head pounds, but still they come, squeezing through my slit eyelids and running down my cheeks. I wipe them away, hating how I must look to the cameras. What will people think of me? I am too weak to bear my reaping stoically.

The Peacekeepers have reached me. They grab my arms and pull me from the other girls. Suddenly the sweaty mess of teenagers seems a haven, and I feel horribly exposed out in the aisle. The cameras follow me as the Peacekeepers escort me to the stage. I keep my head down, but my shaking shoulders must betray my tears.

Ashton told me not to worry. He and the others have said numerous times these past few weeks that it wouldn't be me. But they were wrong, and now I will die, just as Talia did last year. I will die a bloody, painful death, and there is nothing I can do to avoid it.

* * *

**A/N: So what are your thoughts on Arable and Donny? **

**Please review! **


	11. District 10 Reaping

**District 10**

**0847 hours Lowlands Standard Time**

* * *

**District 10 female: Channas Grayline, 16**

* * *

_I sit cross-legged in the dusty lot behind my house, writing my name on the ground in jagged letters with a stick. Across from me kneels a girl in dark green overalls. She rakes her finger through the dust, shifting impatiently. _

_"Let's play truth or dare," she declares, rocking back onto her heels. _

_"Must we?" I say. "Surely we've exhausted all the options by now, Amhe. You've never picked truth, and I'm not sure there's a dare out there I haven't already given you." _

_Amhe grins at me, revealing a wide gap a tooth has yet to fill in. "Come on, Channas, you're better than that. You can think of something. Anything will do." _

_"Fine," I say, a grin of my own creeping onto my lips. "I've got something, but I'm not sure even you will be up for it." _

_"Try me." _

_And I tell her. _

_Ten minutes later, I'm cautiously peering out from behind a tree as Amhe tiptoes towards a seemingly abandoned shack. Once upon a time it housed Calaway Sillin, our district's second victor, and since he won he has stored a vast array of weapons in it. _

_The shack's door has no lock, but it is tied shut with a thick rope. Amhe flicks open her pocketknife and begins to saw through it, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. It takes her several minutes, but finally the rope falls free of the handle and snakes to the ground. Amhe pries the door open and slips inside. She emerges a minute later, grasping two wooden bows, two quivers of arrows tucked under her arm. _

_We take off and don't stop running until we've reached the safety of the dusty lot. _

The look of triumph Amhe wears now is the same one she wore that day three years ago. Her lips are quirked in a superior half-smile, and her brown eyes glitter mischievously.

"All right, what did you do?" I say, crossing my arms and leaning against the thick trunk of the tree behind me. I have known Amhe for years, and have long since learned to recognize when one of her exploits has succeeded.

"Me? Nothing," Amhe says with feigned innocence. Then her face breaks into a grin and she says, "Well, nothing new. Remember the turkey incident from last week? They 'found' the culprit," she says, making quotation marks in the air with her fingers. "It's Jared." She collapses in a fit of giggles.

I smirk. Last week Amhe hacked into the school database and altered the teachers' lesson plans so every 'the' was replaced with a small picture of a turkey. The teachers had tripped over themselves trying to find the culprit, but had apparently been forced to put the blame on the most obvious suspect, the school's tech genius.

"You should help me sometime," Amhe says. "You're smart. You and me, we would make a good team."

I shake my head. I've never been one for pranks, at least not pranks extending beyond my brother, Miron. I have never been a risk taker.

"Shame," she sighs. She lifts her bow to her shoulder and shoots. Her arrow hits the edge of a distant tree and skitters to the ground, taking a chunk of bark with it.

I notch an arrow and aim at the same tree. It's fifteen, maybe twenty yards away, and about a foot wide. I exhale and release the string. My arrow hits the tree, but a few feet from where I had anticipated. I make a face. Since Amhe stole the bows three years ago, we have practiced frequently, and while my aim has improved significantly since we began, it is still far from what I would like.

We practice in silence for maybe half an hour. A distant voice breaks the silence, calling Amhe's name. She hastily stows her bow in our holding space in a small enclave under the roots of a large tree. She gives me a last wave and darts away through the trees.

I pluck the arrows from the tree and place them in the enclave along with my bow. I walk through the woods towards my house, relishing my last few moments of peace.

When I enter the house, Miron falls on me immediately. He grabs me around my middle and carries me to the living room, where he deposits me none too gently on the couch. My eighteen-year-old brother has always enjoyed hauling me about, much to my chagrin. I roll from the couch and jab him in the neck, hard, the way he told me to if anyone larger than me ever attacked me. Of course, he had added somewhat cautiously, if I truly wanted to hurt them there were better places to aim.

Miron winces and ducks when my next blow comes towards his head. When he straightens, he is laughing. I am not.

"Loosen up," he says. He grins, knowing how much I hate those words. He inspects my face, and his smile fades. "Is it the reaping?"

I shrug dismissively. "It's not like I've taken any tesserae."

"It's not like you don't always worry when you have no cause to," he points out. "For what it's worth, there are eighteen-year-olds out there with forty plus entries. Even some twelve-year-olds have more than you. And hasn't Dad schooled you in statistics? You're good at math, you know the odds."

"I know," I say. And it's true - no one I have known has ever been reaped, and I hardly expect the same fate to befall Miron or myself. "But it's better to be ready for anything, isn't it?"

Miron smiles, but his eyes are downcast. "That it is."

* * *

**District 10 male: Jayke Rodriguez, 17**

* * *

The long blade of my knife sinks deep into the hunk of raw meat, cutting free a slab perhaps an inch thick. I place the slab on the place beside the wooden cutting board and wipe the blood from the knife. It is a messy job, slicing meat for the local butcher, but I have gotten used to it. The blood oozing from the meat used to make bile rise in my throat, but it no longer bothers me.

I don't notice Dani's arrival until she says, "It's the morning before the reaping, and you're working?"

I start, and my knife jerks away from the meat. "Don't do that," I complain, turning to glare at my elder sister. "I nearly cut off my finger. And you know the butcher. He can't afford to give any days off. I'm just lucky he didn't call me over to the slaughterhouses this morning. And I don't really mind; it pays."

"Hardly," Dani says with a snort.

"You're really going there?" I say. "You don't even have a job."

"I'm not the one who eats half the food on the table at every meal..."

I scowl, but have nothing to say to that. I finish slicing the meat and put the platter in the refrigerator, making a mental note to give it to the butcher after the reaping. Then I wash my hands and return to my room, where I change into a blue button-down shirt and pants. I roll the sleeves up to my elbows, knowing all too well the stifling heat that settles over the district in the summertime.

I pull on my boots and step outside. Almost immediately, I hear someone calling my name.

"Jayke! Over here!"

My friend Ethan is jogging down the block, Ariana just a step behind him. Ariana is already dressed for the reaping in a light green sundress, but Ethan still wears a loose t-shirt and shorts that could very well be his pyjamas, knowing him.

"Hey," I say, smiling broadly. I am immediately at ease. Ethan has been my friend since we started school, and Ariana since not long after. We are a close-knit group, along with two other girls from the neighborhood. "Where are Elina and Isabel?" I ask.

Ariana sighs. "Their parents want them to stay home," she says. "Reaping morning and all."

"Don't remind me," Ethan groans. "My name's in there twelve times."

"I have eighteen," I say. "But even if I am reaped, I figure I'll do pretty well. I've worked with a knife for the butcher, and while I won't be too keen on killing anyone, I'll do it if I have to."

"You could probably win," Ariana agrees. "Of course, I'd rather you not go in at all."

I have never truly contemplated what might happen if it is my name the escort chooses; such an occurrence seems almost beyond the limits of possibility. For the first time I imagine my name echoing through the square. I would take it in stride, of course. I know what I am capable of. Perhaps winning would be difficult, but I would certainly stand a decent chance. Others might cry when they are chosen, but I would not. I would be strong. I _am_ strong.

I can imagine killing. I have handled a knife for years, killing cattle and slicing their meat for the butcher. Surely a human cannot be very different. It would be an unnecessary death, but at the same time necessary for my survival. If I do not know them, I could do it. I could sink my knife into their flesh, and perhaps it would be unpleasant, but I would not regret it.

"It won't be you," Ariana assures me.

I roll my eyes and give her my best _duh_ look.

"Don't jinx it," Ethan warns, but he's grinning. "Now if you're picked we'll know who to blame. Really, Ariana, you might just have killed him. We could put you on trial for murder."

"Not funny," she says.

"Oh come on, you're smiling."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

I look back and forth between them, amused. Any tension that arose with the subject of the reaping has diffused into the air, leaving only a lingering apprehension. I tell myself to relax; I don't believe in jinxes, anyways. But still the apprehension remains.

* * *

**District 10 female: Channas Grayline, 16**

* * *

I don't speak to Amhe again before the reaping. When I enter the square I see her, but she is happily chatting away with some of the other girls from our class, so I keep my distance. I have never been particularly sociable, and indeed often make my best effort to get away if a social interaction seems close at hand.

Amhe is the only person I've ever been able to call a friend, and that was not by my prompting, or even by hers. Amhe's parents work for the Mayor of District Ten alongside my mother, and since we were little they encouraged us to play together. At first it was somewhat forced, on my part at least, but in recent years it has become almost easy.

After a few minutes I notice that several other eligibles are sending me odd glances, but it's not until a girl in the section behind me rakes me up and down with her eyes that I realize what they are staring at.

I have never been one for dresses. I despise the lack of freedom of movement, and the way the fabric tangles around my knees. Today I wear my nicest trousers and a plain dark green shirt. I vaguely remember telling Mom I would change, but it's too late for that now. Feeling not guilty but apprehensive as to what her reaction might be upon seeing me, I turn my attention back to the stage.

I do my best to pay attention to the Mayor's speech, for though it is littered with long words used for the sole purpose of sounding professional the story it tells is quite interesting. I am glad I was not there when the San Andreas fault split after World War III, but it is captivating to hear of such disasters now. I am no history nut, but I will never turn down a tale about this era.

The Mayor's speech is over far too quickly, and then the escort replaces him on the stage. She greets us with her usual unbridled enthusiasm, all smiles and cheer.

"Good morning, District Ten!" she says. "Or good afternoon, rather. Judging by the heat it's at least midday. It never gets nearly this hot in the Capitol. Lucky us, eh? Anyways, it's the most exciting day of the year in the land of cowboys and ranches - it's reaping day!"

The crowd is silent and stony-faced. The escort doesn't seem to notice. She chooses the first slip, the girl.

My heart races. It's not going to be me, I tell myself. I've taken no tesserae. Not me, it won't be me. Of course it won't be.

"Channas Grayline!"

At first I feel only annoyance. It irritates me to no end how substitutes and everyone who doesn't know me always manages to mispronounce my name. Surely it can't be _that_ hard.

But only a split second later the shock hits me hard. I tense, and tears press against the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them through. I can't cry now.

I walk to the stage on unsteady feet. I feel dizzy and light headed, and the stage swims before my eyes. I climb the stairs and shake the escort's hand. It's bony and slick with sweat, and I pull away as soon as her grip loosens.

There is a lump in my throat, and my head throbs. I scan the crowd for my parents, Miron and Amhe, but find none of them. I am alone.

* * *

**District 10 male: Jayke Rodriguez, 17**

* * *

"Just think about it," I say as Ethan and I walk into the square. "I don't know what the latest district population count is, but it will be down two in just a few minutes."

"You're a bundle of cheery thoughts, aren't you?" he says, rolling his eyes. "There's nothing anyone can do now but wait and see who it is. We worried last year, and the year before that, and we'll worry next year, but it's never been us, and it never will be."

"I know," I say.

I tune Ethan out and look for my sisters. Sydney is already standing several sections behind me with the other thirteen-year-olds, but Dani has yet to arrive, though the reaping will begin any minute now. She must have a death wish, cutting it this close. The streets outside will be clogged with latecomers by now, and it will not be easy for the late eligibles to make it to the square. A pang of worry strikes me. What if the Peacekeepers take her away?

And then I see her, casually strolling through the closing gates. She spots me and grins teasingly, as if sensing my panic. I give her an irritated look, but I am relieved and she knows it.

Not fifteen seconds later, the Mayor taps on the microphone, and the crowd quiets. I listen to him drone on about the Treaty of Treason, giving my stage my attention only when he is replaced by the escort.

As usual, she chooses the girl first. This year it's a sixteen-year-old with dark hair and a lean, muscular frame. She looks vaguely familiar, and I am sure I have seen her at school, but now she's only a sacrifice to the Capitol.

"Excellent! We're halfway done!" the escort says. "Now, for the boy."

A knot of worry begins to build at the pit of my stomach. The atmosphere is taut with tension as the escort slowly unfolds the paper slip bearing the name of the doomed male.

"Our male contestant is Jayke Rodriguez!"

The crowd exhales in relief, all except for me. I gasp, but the air catches in my throat. The knot in my stomach grows, and my knees go weak. It's me. She said my name.

_Keep it together_, I tell myself sternly. I can't show fear. They know I was taken completely by surprise, and that is bad enough.

Slowly, I force my legs to move, to carry me from my partition into the aisle. Two Peacekeepers walk behind me, but I reach the stage without the assistance. Channas' hand closes around mine. Her dark eyes are worried and tense. I want to tell her it will be okay, but that would be a lie.

Everything will not be all right. Decades have been stolen from us, and in only weeks our blood will be spilled. No, that would be a lie indeed.

* * *

**A/N: I'm leaving for camp in a few days, so I won't be able to update until August at the earliest. **

**I don't think I did too well with either of these tributes. My apologies to their submitters. **

**What did you think of them? Which was your favorite? **


	12. District 11 Reaping

**A/N: I'm back! It's been a while.**

* * *

**District 11**

**0812 hours**

* * *

**District 11 Female: Sparrow Greene, 14**

* * *

_I'm standing in a sea of children. Each pair of eyes is focused carefully on the podium, where there stands a man with the hard black eyes of a hungry shark. The square is deathly silent but for the thrumming of my heart, a shallow, panicky sound. In his claws the man holds a single slip of paper. As he slowly unfolds it, his eyes settle on me, and a leer forms on his lips. _

_But the voice that calls out my name is not his but a voice far more familiar: it's Thrush, my brother. But as I begin to search for him, the square melts out of focus._

"Sparrow! Get up!"

I groan and rub my eyes blearily. Thrush is leaning over me, shaking my arm. His face is grim, and I nearly ask him what's wrong when I remember: it's reaping day.

Thrush is my twin brother, not that you would need me to tell you if you saw us together. When we were little folks always had trouble telling us apart. It's our older sister Lark who got most of Father's genes. She and Father are the only people in the area with dark blonde hair and lighter skin. But I'm not as close to Lark. It's Thrush and I who work on the orchard with our parents. And, more importantly, it's Thrush and I who train.

It's better to be strong than weak, and better to be prepared than helpless. So a year or two back the two of us scavenged for the best weapons we could find and did our best to learn to use them. At the beginning we tried to spar with plows and anvils, but when this failed we moved to the smaller knives and even spears, or spent hours squatting in the dirt learning to build fires.

Mother and Father would never consent if they knew, so our escapades always took place in the early hours of the morning, before they awoke. But this morning when I awaken, the sun is already high on the horizon.

"What time is it?" I mumble. "Seven already?"

"About eight, actually," Thrush says. "It's reaping day, so the others won't be up for another while still. We have time."

I yawn and look outside. It's far later than usual, but surely it's not eight yet. I have always been an early riser. I never sleep until eight. "I'm pretty sure it's not eight yet."

"And I'm pretty sure it is."

"Trust me, Thrush - "

"It's eight, and we're running out of time," he interrupts. "It's late, so we have to be quieter. Let's do snares today."

I nod, satisfied. Snares have always calmed me and served to take my mind off of whatever has been bothering me. I doubt even this could make me forget the reaping, but there is little else to do. I like weapons training well enough, but there is always the knowledge that if I am ever to apply my weapons skills, it will be when fighting or killing another human being. I wouldn't want to kill anyone, not in a million years, but I know I would have to if I ever end up in the arena.

We walk down the hall, treading as quietly as possible on the creaky wooden floor. We slip outside, and Thrush carefully unwinds the spool of old, fraying yellow rope. I take one end of the rope and sit cross-legged in the dirt, not crafting any particular snare, just manipulating the rope into one knot after another.

Barely fifteen minutes have passed when Thrush begins to wind the rope again.

"It's already time?" I say, disappointed. He only smiles apologetically. "I can put the rope back," I tell him. "You can go back inside. I'll only be a few minutes."

"Thanks." Thrush gives me the rope and disappears around the corner of the house.

I finish winding the rope, then tilt my head back to gaze up at the sun creeping farther over the horizon, casting warm golden rays of light over the orchards. Sometimes District Eleven seems like a prison, but it is home.

* * *

**District 11 male: Birch McGrove, 12**

* * *

In my dream, Father gets us strawberry tarts for the reaping day feast. They smell delicious, but there are only five, and Mother eats mine before I get the chance. The seventeen-year-old twins, Nova and Wren, each give me a bite of theirs, but my reaping day is still ruined. I do love strawberry tarts.

I'm very relieved when I wake up. Reaping day has only just begun, and whether dessert is strawberry tarts or chocolate cake, I will get a piece. Nova and Wren won't let Mother take mine.

The doors of my closet are splayed wide open. On a silver hanger hanging from the doorknob is the outfit I selected last night just before bedtime: an intricately embroidered white button-up shirt, a gray vest, formal black pants and a strawberry red tie. I change out of my nightclothes and put on the suit, then stand in front of the four by eight foot mirror.

I stand as tall as I can, stretching my frame to a grand total of five feet and one inch. I run a hand over my head to smooth down my dark brown hair, but when my hand passes my curls jump back up, somehow even more unruly than before. I shake my head and step away from the mirror.

Nova and Wren share the bedroom next to mine. When I press my ear to the wall I can hear them talking, and I feel slightly guilty for eavesdropping, but still excited that I managed the endeavor. I have learned quite a bit through the wall, from juicy gossip to information I would rather not know. Today the topic is dresses.

"I prefer the green," one of them is saying. "It brings out the flecks in your eyes, and it's such a pretty shade."

"But, Wren, don't you think it's cut a bit low?"

"That might be a plus, if you really are trying to get Jack to notice you..."

I pull my head away from the wall, grimacing. If there's one subject I'd rather not hear about, it's my sisters' love lives. But it's too late, and my innocence has been purged. Feeling much like an adult weighed down by the world's gossip, I leave my bedroom and walk down the spiral staircase to the dining room.

Father stands by the table, a large plate of scrambled eggs balancing on his arm. His black hair sticks up in all directions, and I can tell he's mussed it up the way he always does when he's worrying about something. He wears a pensive, uneasy expression, but a warm smile spreads across his face when he sees me.

"Birch," he murmurs, setting the eggs on the table and hugging me tight. "How did you sleep."

"Quite well," I reply. "What about you?"

"I didn't get much sleep," he admits. "I'm glad you did. Listen, Birch...I don't know what the boys have been talking about at school, but whatever you hear from them, remember that you have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

I give him a confused smile. "Of course." What is there to be worried about?

Wren and Nova enter the dining room then. Nova has chosen the green dress, while Wren has settled for a somewhat less revealing one a rich shade of brown. Father greets them warmly, and I give them a wide grin. The twins take their seats, and I scamper back upstairs to find Mother.

Mother is still asleep on her king sized bed. Her hair is matted over her face, and her face is buried in the side of the pillow. She reeks of beer. She must have gone to the night club again last night. It seems she is always out drinking or partying. I sidle up to her and carefully wiggle her shoulder. She doesn't wake up. I flick the lights on and yank her cover awake, and that does the trick. Her eyes fly open and fix on my immediately. I cringe when her expression contorts into one of anger and distaste.

"It's breakfast," I whisper before darting out of the room and scurrying back downstairs.

The twins are far more subdued than usual, as is Father. I try to lighten the mood with a few jokes, but they don't penetrate the dense cloud of unease I can feel forming over the others. When Wren shoots me a look that makes it clear she is barely tolerating me, I decide to shut up and eat.

* * *

**District 11 female: Sparrow Greene, 14**

* * *

Thrush stays by my side until we reach the square. The enclosure is far too small for the district's population, and the excess spectators are already lining up in the streets. The Peacekeepers hold them back, creating a thin vein through which we walk to the sign in booth.

The Capitol attendants log our names in the system, and we walk into the square. Thrush hugs me, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, betraying his nervousness.

"See you after the reaping," he murmurs into my ear. I nod and force a smile as he is swallowed by the crowd.

My own anxiety is rising, bubbling deep in my gut. I am from one of the more affluent families in the district, and my name is only in the bowl three times, so my rational side tells me I shouldn't worry, but chance is always a threat. My fate is up to chance now, and I do not like it.

Someone is calling my name. I turn around to search for the voice, but I don't find its owner until their hand touches my arm. It's Violet, who has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. She lives miles away in the poorest zone of the district, but at school we are nearly inseparable.

"There you are," she says breathlessly. Her smile is somewhat less vibrant than usual, but still her tone is buoyant. "That's a lovely dress."

"Thanks." I rub a fold of the dark red velvet between my fingers. It's not the nicest dress I own, but it's nicer than anything Violet has worn in her life. I offered to lend her a dress of mine, but she declined, opting instead for a simple frock a washed out shade of blue, which is at least two sizes too small.

"Are you ready?" Violet asks.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I reply. "And the odds of my being picked now are no different that they'll be in ten minutes. I just want to get it over with."

Violet nods, and a shadow of uncertainty passes over her face. She eyes a man at the edge of the crowd. He's passing out pale pink slips of paper. Betting slips. I glance over at Violet and wonder if she too is wondering what is on the slips. Is the money this year on a rich kid, or a poor kid? Young or old?

Of course I am nervous that I might be chosen, but I am even more worried about Violet. We have more names in our bowls than any other district, but Violet must have at least fifteen, maybe even eighteen; her family is very large, and she is the only one eligible for tesserae. I wouldn't ask, though, as it's considered rude.

The escort is a tall man with light brown skin. His thin, almost frail frame swims in a blue silk suit, and the thick makeup on his face cannot hide his wrinkles. He calls for silence and goes through the usual greetings.

I don't see the man go to the bowl, but before I know it he is grasping a piece of paper between two fingers and grinning down at us, saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to pick this year's contestants. Ladies first..."

A few seconds pass.

A baby's cry breaks the silence.

"Sparrow Greene!"

My breath catches in my throat. But it can't be me; that's what I've been telling myself for years, even when I wake up early to train, just in case. It can't be me.

But it is. I feel the pressure building in my head, and behind my eyes. I swallow hard and compose myself as best I can. I can't cry.

Each step takes me closer to the stage. Time crawls by impossibly slowly, and I almost want it to all be over, the next few days and the weeks after that, which will without doubt be the worst in my life. Maybe it would be better to die now, to bypass all of the pain...

I hear footsteps skitter behind me. I turn around, and my eyes widen. Violet has stepped into the aisle and is walking up to me, her cheeks stained with all the tears I am holding back. She's volunteering. I am both grateful and devastated. I will live, but I will lose the only friend I have ever truly had. Violet will die, but I will survive another year.

"Violet, no!" A tall girl is running towards us from the ranks of spectators. It's Violet's sister. She grabs her younger sister around the waist and drags her back, her eyes wild.

I stand as still as a statue, watching the commotion. Violet will not volunteer, and it will be me after all.

"Settle down, settle down," the escort calls. "Come up here, dear."

He asks for volunteers, but there are none. I am going into the arena.

* * *

**District 11 male: Birch McGrove, 12**

* * *

We arrive at the square early. Mother and Father join the general crowd, and Nova and Wren lead me down the aisle. I'm at the very back of the square with the other twelve-year-olds.

"Just stand here, and we'll get you after the reaping," Nova says. Her smile is somewhat strained. I can't tell why. I nod to show that yes, I understand. The twins each hug me, then walk up the aisle to the seventeen-year-old section.

There are not more than two dozen other twelve-year-olds who have already arrived. I scan the group, looking for my friends, and find them standing over in the far corner. The height difference is almost comical, with Autumn standing a good head taller than Flint. She's fourteen, but associating with twelve-year-olds isn't beneath her. My only regret is that she treats me as a little brother. I'll have to amend that soon if I'm to marry her before someone older does.

"Autumn! Flint!" I call, walking over to join them.

Autumn smiles at me, and though like my sisters' her smile is tense, it still transforms her already beautiful face. I beam up at her, knowing my face is probably red but not caring a whit.

"I made something for you." Autumn extends her hand. Cupped in her palm is a bracelet made of long strands of still green grass woven delicately together. "It's for good luck."

"Luck?" I repeat. I take the bracelet, and my finger brushes her palm. My eyes dart up, but she doesn't seem to have noticed. I slide the bracelet onto my wrist. "Thank you. It's very nice."

Autumn glances up at the clock above the Justice Building, and returns to the fourteen-year-old section. Flint is giving me a knowing smirk. He makes little kissing sounds, and I stick my tongue out at him.

"You're just jealous 'cause she doesn't like you," I mutter to him, and he gives me a look, like, _Uh huh, sure_. Before I get the chance to respond, the clamor of the crowd fades.

The Mayor is on the stage. She welcomes us, and reads through an account of the Dark Days and the Treaty of Treason, which basically sums up every history textbook I've ever had to read. I figure there has to be more they're not telling us about. What was the world like before World War Three? Father thinks the world was made up of nations like Panem, lots of them, but they fought a lot so now there's only one. I like to think there were flying cars and teleportation machines and other cool technology that was lost in the wars.

The escort replaces the Mayor. He wears a suit made of a rich blue silk, and his face is cloaked in powder. All the people in the Capitol you see on television look like this: calm, cool, and glamorous. I wish I could live in the Capitol. I would have a huge wardrobe with all the colors and fabrics there ever were, and hats and suits and colored powder for my face.

The escort calls out a name. Sparrow something. It's a fourteen-year-old, not quite as pretty as Autumn but still pretty, with dark skin and wavy black hair. There is almost a volunteer, but she is restrained, so Sparrow still ends up on the stage.

There's one more name, this one a boy.

"Birch McGrove!"

It's a few seconds before I realize what happened: it's my name. Mine. Of all the names in the bowl, my single entry was chosen. I have never really watched the Games; I'm not one for reality TV or competitions. I don't know much about the Games. Shouldn't someone who wants to compete compete?

The escort asks for volunteers. I wait, but no one steps up like they did for Sparrow.

Someone behind me gives me a slight push. I stall, but before I can even step out of the section the Peacekeepers are here: two of them, dressed in their white suits, visors down over their faces. They grab my arms and pull my into the aisle and up to the stage.

The camera is trained on my face. I wave at it, smiling nervously. I'm scared, of course, but excited as well. I'm going to the Capitol!

* * *

**A/N: I'm still getting back into the reaping mindset, so tell me how this was. Who did you like better, Sparrow or Birch? How was my portrayal of them? **

**I'm starting school in a few weeks, and being the procrastinator that I am, I still have a good deal of summer homework left to complete. I'll try to update again before my school starts, but no promises. **

**Thanks for reading, and please review! **


	13. District 12 Reaping

**A/N: I have very little time to write, and it will get increasingly difficult as the year progresses. I don't want to officially abandon the story, but I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep it running (if a post every few months can be considered "running"). Anyways, here's District Twelve.**

* * *

**District Twelve**

**The Town**

**0628 hours**

* * *

**District 12 female: Faith Harbourough, 16**

* * *

The room is still dark when I wake, but the window shades glimmer in the early morning light. As silently as possible, I extract myself from my sheets and stuff a pile of clothes on the still depressed mattress before carefully remaking the bed. To any careless observer, it will look like I am still happily slumbering away, like every other person in the district. Every law-abiding person, that is - leaving your house before seven without a night worker's permit is a violation of the curfew, punishable by a week in prison, plus whatever Father would do should he catch me.

But a sighting isn't enough to press charges - I've been seen by Peacekeepers on numerous occasions. I'm sure they're beyond sick of it. They hate to hear my name, which is a distinction I'm more than proud of. They can't stand me, because no matter how many times they glimpse my face, they can't catch me. The moment they spot me, I'll take cover anywhere I can find, from inside trash dumps to the goat pens by the slag heap.

I have lived in this rickety townhouse my entire life. When I was little it was just three of us: me, my father, and Noel, my twenty-three-year-old brother, who is about as different from me as you can get - he's calm, quiet and rule-abiding, and would never dream of testing a law. I was the only girl, as my mother died birthing me. That changed when I was twelve, and Noel got his first girlfriend. They were only together for nine months, after which she ran away, leaving us with a little bundle of flesh who today is an adorable four-year-old named Reese.

It's Reese who sees me leaving. I put on a pair of jean overalls over my pyjamas and am on my way to the window when a small voice pipes up behind me: "Where are you going?"

I start in surprise and turn around. Reese is sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Half of her face is hidden behind her messy light hair, but I don't miss the suspicion in her one visible eye.

"Out," I say with a tight grin. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Are you good at keeping secrets, Reese?"

She nods solemnly. "'Course I am. The very best."

"Do you think you can keep this secret for me, then? Don't tell anyone you saw me. It'll be our little secret, right?"

Reese considers this. After a few seconds of deliberation, she says, "Okay. But only if you wear your necklace. It's good luck, remember?" She points to my dresser, upon which sits the colorful candy necklace she made for my last birthday. Candy is hard to come by in District Twelve, but less so if you're best friends with the four-year-old daughter of the Mayor.

"Of course." My smile eases, and I slip the rainbow band over my head. "I'll be back soon. Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Are you going to eat it?"

I carefully ease open the window before glancing back over my shoulder. "Someday."

I climb outside, where I balance on the windowsill and latch the window shut again, then carefully leap down the two meters to the ground. I land silently on a carpet of leaves still damp from last night's rain. I'm determined not to be seen this time. My goal is only to spite them, to say that I can hide from the bastards, and they'll never find me.

My only destination this morning is the square. I watch from a safe distance as a crew of "volunteers" hoists a bright red Panem flag into position just under the clock on the Justice Building. More Peacekeepers set up the boundaries in the square, stringing ropes between posts and breaking out collapsible tables. One of the Peacekeepers, a tall, decidedly round male with close-cropped blond hair who can't be more than a few years older than me, looks up as I approach. He almost seems to sniff the air, and his small eyes narrow as they rove the street.

_You think someone's here, do you? Oh, I see, you don't see me. I guess you aren't so perceptive after all, you big bastard. Speaking of big, I'm surprised you even fit into that ugly white uniform. How much do they feed you back in the Capitol? _

He still doesn't see me. I smirk and watch a little longer before returning to the house. I jump up to grasp the lowest branch of the tree outside my bedroom window, and slowly inch my way from the trunk. I'm not the best climber, but I've done this many times, so I make it on the first try. The branch points upwards, but when I get farther from the trunk my weight pulls it down so I hang in front of the window.

I enter the room as quietly as I can. Reese is still awake. Her blue-green eyes watch me unblinkingly as I climb back into bed. I'm about to take off the candy necklace when I catch her eye and decide it won't hurt to leave it on for the day. I feel a little silly wearing such a colorful, childish ornament, but Reese's smile makes it worth it.

* * *

**0900 hours**

**District 12 male: Alai Corinth, 13**

* * *

I don't remember much of my dream, only that it is the reaping, and she is standing beside me. A girl with long black hair, shining gray eyes, and an olive complexion matching my own. She smiles at me, murmuring my name. Her hair ripples in the gentle breeze. But as I watch her, something rough and wet scrapes my cheek - it's a paper slip, a reaping slip, with my own name on it.

The girl starts to fade. I call out to her - _Stay! Don't leave me, Imillen, you mustn't leave!_ \- but when I reach out to grab her, my hand passes through her arm as if it is only smoke. And then she is gone, and I am awake, my eyes wet, my heart sinking in despair.

The rough surface runs across my cheek again, but this time it isn't my reaping slip. A white muzzle is only a few inches from my own face. It probes my pillow, then touches my neck. It's Patch, my dog, named not only for the large brown patch on her shoulder but for her role in my life: my best friend, yes, but also a bandage of sorts.

I found her the April I was seven, when she was just a puppy. She was starving and painfully thin, with each bone protruding from her body. I nursed her back to health, and may as well have returned to life myself. That winter was the coldest in anyone's memory. There was hardly any food, and I got very sick. My twin sister Imillen was in even worse condition than I. I recovered eventually, just in time to sit at her bedside and hold her hand as her body gave in at last to starvation and sickness.

I think of her often. Sometimes I think I may be the only one who remembers her; Mother and Father never speak of her, and I doubt any of the others at school remember her either. But I do, and I will never forget.

Patch licks me again. I push myself into a seated position and glance out the window. It's brighter than it is when I usually get up. It must be nine o'clock at least. The streets are still deserted, though - it's reaping day. No one wants to miss what could be their last morning with their family.

I go over to my dresser, where I store my meager selection of clothing. At the very back are the old, faded gray trousers and white button-down shirt I've worn for every special event since I was eight or nine. They're growing small, but we haven't the money to buy a new pair. I change, and tuck my threadbare pyjamas under the covers of my bed.

Patch's stomach grumbles loudly, and mine echoes it a few seconds later.

"Breakfast time," I murmur to her. "I think we've saved some bread."

There is indeed bread in the kitchen, but it is stale and several days old. Prices always go up before the reaping, so we always have to stock up ahead of time, meaning whatever we have the money to buy is already old by the time we get to eat it. But at least we have bread.

I tear off a chunk for Patch and join Mother and Father at the table. To my surprise, there's a small cube of a yellowish substance on a small dish on the table, and it's not the usual tasteless spread but actual butter.

"Reaping day treat," Father says with a faint smile and a nod at the butter dish. "Enjoy it; we likely won't be able to get any more until your birthday, and only then if prices are low enough."

"Thank you." Sometimes in the winter when food is the most scarce my hands itch to tear a chunk of bread and down it in a single bite, but now I cut a slice and carefully spread an even layer of butter on it before eating it. The bread is hard, but the butter is at once sweet and salty. Most mornings we do not have breakfast at all, so this is a welcome change.

Real baker's bread for us is a rarity; usually we make do with hard, grainy small loaves baked from my tesserae grain. Most of our food comes from my tesserae. I have ten entries this year, and would have taken more had Mother and Father not worried for my safety. And now as the reaping draws closer, I am glad I have no more than ten entries, because if I am picked...

Mother seems to sense my unrest. "It's okay," she murmurs, placing her hand on mine.

"But what if?" I whisper, turning my gaze to her.

She looks down into my face, her gray eyes at worried but comforting. "There is no 'what if'. It won't be you, Alai. We aren't the luckiest of people, that can't be denied, but you will be with us to the end of our days. I can feel it. You needn't worry."

I nod and look away, but I am not comforted. I figure being reaped is one of those things that you never think will happen to you, until it happens to you. My name is only in the bowl ten times, but that is still ten entries. Ten chances to be chosen. Ten chances to die.

* * *

**District 12 female: Faith Harbourough, 16**

* * *

Maybe fifteen minutes after nine, there's a knock at the door. I'm happy to hear it for two reason, the first being that Reese has been begging me to tell her a story all morning and there's only so many excuses I can come up with, and the second being that there's only one person it could be. A smile flits across my face, and I jump up to answer the door.

It is not much lighter than it was during my early morning escapade, and dark clouds have moved in to block the sun. It is gray from the sky to the barren streets. The only true color is the faded blue dress worn by the girl on the doorstep. The girl has raven black hair and matching eyes, and though she smiles at me her face is grim.

"Synthe," I say, stepping aside to allow her in. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

Synthe takes off her cardigan and hangs it on the coat rack. She is no stranger to our house; in truth she is here so frequently that Father has begun to call her his second daughter. Usually she is quite talkative, but there is an awkward silence as we face each other, neither of us sure what to say.

"Have you eaten?" I offer halfheartedly. In District Twelve where no one has any food to spare, a guest will never answer an offer for food in the affirmative, no matter how hungry they are. It is everyday etiquette not to take anyone else's food unless you are on death's doorstep. Synthe is practically part of our family, but she still waves me away.

"I'm fine," she says. "I take it that's not what you're wearing to the reaping?"

I look down. I'm still wearing a pair of dirty jean overalls over my threadbare pyjamas. "Oh...no." I smile sheepishly.

We head over to my room, where I change into black tights and a plaid blouse. I top it off with Noel's old combat boots. We still have ample time before the reaping, so Synthe helps me curl my hair. Personally I couldn't care less if my hair is curled, but sometimes Father insists upon it, and Synthe is always eagr to assist. She has an obsession with all things fashion.

The morning passes faster than either of us would like, and before we know it Father and Noel are calling for us to walk with them to the square. I look over at Synthe, suddenly feeling a gnaw of fear in the pit of my stomach.

"It'll be fine," Synthe murmurs, more to herself than to me.

I nod, but can't help but wonder which two children will leave the district today never to return, which two families will be forever torn apart. In two houses tonight, cakes will sit uneaten on tables, tears will run down cheeks and join the layers of coal dust that hide in every nook and cranny where no broom can sweep them away.

Hunger gnawing at the pit of my stomach. Fear, right alongside it, whittling away at me. Twenty slips of paper swimming in a glass bowl. Another bowl, a chain link fence, penning me in.

The clock on my wall ticks each second by, and the reaping draws nearer.

* * *

**District 12 male: Alai Corinth, 13**

* * *

I needn't worry, Mother reminds me as we say our last good-byes outside of the square. You needn't worry, Alai, it won't be you. Ten in thousands, Alai, ten in thousands. She presses her lips against my forehead. One last parting gift.

I stand with the other thirteen-year-olds near the back of the square. The boys around me are more subdued than usual, but their voices still overwhelm me. I cross my arms tight and lower my chin to my chest, and rock gently on the balls of my feet.

The Mayor begins his speech. I dutifully bring my eyes to the stage. There's one more chair than last year. Upon it sits Haymitch Abernathy, last year's victor. He used to live in the Seam not far from my own dwelling. He still has the features of a Seamboy, olive complexion and curly dark hair and gray eyes starkly contrasting the neatly pressed new suit that no one from the Seam would ever be able to afford.

The Mayor finishes reading the Treaty of Treason and welcomes the escort to the stage. It's Ginevra Crowhat, a tall blonde Capitolite who has been choosing our tributes since I was six or seven.

"Good morning, District Twelve!" she chirps. "It's time to choose which lucky young folk will get a shot at the crown this year! We had luck on our side last year, and I'm pleased to remind you all that this year our tributes will have a real mentor: Haymitch Abernathy!"

There is a light smattering of applause, most of it from the stage. Ginevra gestures for Haymitch to stand up. He crosses his arms and gives her an icy stare, and the clapping dies away.

"Very well then," Ginevra says with a huff. "Our female contender shall be...Faith Harborough!"

Almost immediately, a girl shoves her way out of the sixteen-year-old section. She sprints down the aisle and catapults herself into the crowd of onlookers. I don't see what happens next, but twenty seconds later three Peacekeepers haul her back into the aisle. She kicks and fights, and very nearly gets loose, but the Peacekeepers eventually manage to get her to the stage, where they hold her fast.

"This one certainly has spirit," Ginevra says. Her tone is one of admiration, but there is a steely undertone that I can't quite identify. "Now, for our male."

The square grows silent again. Her heels click loudly against the stage floor as she walks to the glass bowl. She carefully selects a slip, then returns to the microphone.

I imagine Mother's hand resting on my shoulder. You needn't worry, Alai.

Ten in thousands, Alai, ten in thousands.

Rocking back and forth on my feet. Back and forth, back and forth.

"Alai Corinth!"

It is as if the floor has dropped out from under me. My knees go weak, and the square swims as tears come to my eyes. Not me. No, it's not possible.

The boys around me are craning their necks to get a better view of this year's victim. My name is bounced around the square, murmured from ear to ear. _Alai. Alai Corinth? Never heard of him. _

My legs are numb as I step into the aisle. I slowly walk to the stage. I stare at the ground, not wanting to see anyone, because it'll be the last time I see any of them.

The girl's hand is in mine. She has odd eyes, colored like teal, smoldering with hatred, I hope not for me. She grips my hand reluctantly. Her skin is rough, and there is a layer of grime under her fingernails.

"Hello," I murmur, because it seems right.

Rocking back and forth, back and forth. I ball my fists and squeeze my nails into my palms. Ten in thousands, ten chances to die. And it was enough.

* * *

**A/N: We're finally done with the reaping. What did you think about Faith and Alai? Who did you like better? **

**For all the tributes: **

**Love:  
Like:  
Neutral:  
Dislike:  
Loathe: **


	14. Train Rides

**A/N: This will be my last update for this story. I just don't have the time or the motivation to continue with it. Sorry. **

* * *

**The Train**

**1000 hours**

* * *

**District 5 male: Luthen Mire, 12**

* * *

"I truly cannot express how excited I am to meet you two," Filius says, his dark eyes sparkling in anticipation. We're sitting around a shiny, pristine metal table in a cozy dining room aboard the train - him, me, and Marina, the female tribute. The walls are intricately designed and dotted with framed scenic pictures, and the ceiling is striped with bright electric lights.

"We are now at the start of a long and exciting journey, and I'll be seeing you through to the very end," Filius continues. "This is likely my last year as District Five's escort, and I expect you two will make it a good one, yes?"

"Yep," I agree. "We're gonna win. I'm really fast, and I'm strong, too. I never cry."

Filius laughs. "There are other measures of strength, you know. Can you lift a sword?" He gives me a quick once-over, his eyes lingering on my skinny arms. It's true, I'm hardly the most muscular of boys, but I'm sure I could lift a sword just fine. I'm about to tell him this when another question pops into my head.

"Where are you from?" I ask curiously. "Your skin is dark. You never see that around here, except in the northeast part of the town and on television."

Filius seems amused. "I'm from the Capitol, of course. It's very common there."

"Really? It's cool."

I dart a glance at Marina. She has barely spoken since we boarded the train. She has wavy brown hair and brown eyes. She's taller than me, and quite pretty, I suppose, though I dismiss the thought as soon as it enters my mind. She looks over at me and our eyes meet. I look away, embarrassed.

Marina wears a pretty white dress nicer than anything anyone I know would be able to afford. She must not be from the Town. She must be _rich_. I'm burning with curiosity, but I'm too nervous to ask.

There is a soft mechanical hum as the door panel slides open and a man and a woman walk in. The man has sallow, yellowing skin and dark bags under his bloodshot eyes. A morphling addict, by the look of him. We have quite a few of those in Five. He sits down in the chair next to mine, and I scoot away discreetly.

The woman scares me as well, but in an entirely different way. She has dark hair and icy green eyes, and when she looks at me her lip curls into a small sneer. She looks critically at Marina and me, and then slides into the chair between Marina and Filius. "So this is all we have to work with?" she says in annoyance.

"The boy says he's strong," Filius says.

"Oh, marvelous."

"Give them a chance, Crest," the escort says. "They might have something in them." He nods encouragingly at us.

"Yes, we will find out, won't we?" Crest smiles humorlessly. "They want me to make you fighters, to give you what you need to win, but I can only mold what you give me to work with. You want some advice? In training, friends are more important than skills. In the arena, you'll want someone watching your back. That's how our tributes died last year, and the year before, and the year before that: they were loners. They had no one to help them, no one to eat a poisonous berry and die before they were able to take a bite. I'd tell you two to go for the weapons or learn some skills, but I've worked with tributes like you before. Training time is wasted - you learn nothing."

Marina stares at her. "So you don't want us to try to learn anything?"

"You think you can learn anything and get good enough for it to matter in three days' time? It takes longer than that, much longer than that. The only thing Capitol training does is give you _hope_." Crest's lip curls in contempt as she says the word. "Hope is dangerous. Makes you think you have a chance, when really you're just as screwed as you've been since they pulled your name."

"We do have a chance," Marina insists. Her voice wavers only slightly, and it's gone when she speaks again: "If we try, and if we're lucky, there _is_ a chance one of us will come back." She gives me a warm smile, and even though we're technically enemies now I can tell it is genuine. Her eyes are bright with hope, and her optimism is contagious. She's right: I do have a chance, and a decent one at that. As I said before, I'm pretty strong.

But Crest is unimpressed. "That's what every other mentor is telling their tributes. But I've seen this year's reaping tapes. I've seen who you'll be up against. You think you'll be walking away with the laurels? You don't stand a chance."

* * *

**District 7 male: Levi Dornan, 17**

* * *

The dining car is ringed by sleek mahogany tables, each decked with tiered plates of exotic delicacies. I trail my fingers around the base of a silver platter stacked with small leaf-shaped cookies glazed in autumn reds and oranges. Another platter holds a diverse selection of colorful fruits sitting in a clear syrup. I pick a green one and lift it to my lips. It is deliciously sweet, and the syrup runs down my fingers.

"We have special plates for those, you know," the escort, Sophie, says, gesturing to a stack of small colored plates beside the fruit platter. "It's not customary to eat them without holding a plate. If you go to a party and take a bite without first putting it on your plate, oh, the people will stare!" She grimaces and shakes her head disapprovingly. "I know you'll only be in the Capitol for a few days, but you really ought to learn some culture. What do they teach you in District Seven?"

"Clearly nothing of importance," Acacia remarks dryly. "What savages we must appear."

I give my district partner a sidelong glance. I had never spoken to her before the reaping, but I knew who she was. Everyone did - she had a loud presence, even on the rare occasions when she wasn't running her mouth.

"You _would_ seem more civilized if you adhered to even the most basic norms," Sophie says with a sniff.

"Oh, so if we don't act like we're from the Capitol, we're not civilized enough for you?" Acacia's eyes flash. "My apologies for not parading around with a dead bird on my head."

Sophie's hand rises to touch the stiff feathered hat resting on her intricately braided hair. "This is a genuine parratross, I'll have you know," she says, affronted. "That's a parrot-albatross hybrid, which you don't see every day. They're martyrs - they died for the good of the fashion industry."

"An entire species went extinct so you could stuff up some _hats_?" Acacia says in disgust.

"Well, they're not really a species, you must understand..."

I tune out my bickering companions. I gaze out of the window at the endless expanse of trees. District Seven is located in what was once known as the Rocky Mountains, directly north of the Capitol and District One. The actual district is set in a broad valley, surrounded on all sides by genetically engineered trees. The scene outside of the window is one I have seen all my life, but instead of calming me, it makes me sad.

I'm leaving, and most likely I will never return. Never again will I sit on the dusty porch and feel the crisp mountain breeze on my skin. Never again will I wake up early to watch the sun chase the shadows from the valley. Never again will I lay eyes on my best friend Rowan and feel that once familiar rush of nervous excitement.

When Rowan came to see me after the reaping, he spoke only three words: "I love you." I stared at him in quiet astonishment; I had always suspected he felt the same way about me as I did about him, but neither of us had ever acknowledged it before. He hugged me, and I rested my head on his shoulder, and we stayed that way until our time was up.

"Let's start a trend," Sophie announces. She clasps my shoulders and pulls me away from the window. "You'll get all the credit, of course, Levi. It'll be like your legacy, no matter what happens in the arena."

"Sorry?" I smile apologetically.

"Your flower, of course!" Sophie plucks a reddish-gold blossom from the vase on the table and winds the stem around the button at her collar. "When I think of District Seven, I just think _trees_, but you have some decent flora as well. Where'd you get it?"

My hand goes to the white flower pinned to my lapel. "My sister gave it to me. Lydia." I think of my sister, of her wavy hair and sparkling brown eyes, of the way she would smile at me and remind me that no matter what happened, she would be there to help, she would be there for me.

"Don't," I say. My voice cracks, so I say it again, louder this time: "Don't." My flower is mine, my sister's last gift to me. The thought of the Capitol romanticizing something so personal hurts me deep in my heart in the place where you hold everything dear to you. But even this place is no longer mine; I can feel it being ripped open, its contents exposed and scattered to the winds.

The Capitol does not want only our faces and our names. They want our souls, our very essence, until there is nothing left we can claim dignity upon, for we are truly and wholly theirs. That is the price of the Games - not just our lives, but our whole being.

Sophie ignores my protest and ties the flower into place at her collar. With trembling fingers, I remove Lydia's flower and clutch it tight, as if that will somehow preserve its meaning. But Sophie tells me to put it back, and she appraises me as if judging how I will look on a television screen.

I had worried about losing my humanity in the arena, but now I wonder if I will have any left when the gong first sounds. Already the Capitol is taking away the dignity that made me human. Perhaps by the time we must enter the arena I will only be a shell, and perhaps that will justify my death in some sick way. I call to mind images of my parents and my siblings, and say a final goodbye to them, one by one.

The door slides open and a man walks into the compartment, a camera slung over his shoulder.

He raises it to his eye, and Sophie pulls Acacia and me towards her. The flash blinds me temporarily. As I blink to dispel the dark spots from my vision I try once again to envision my family, but now their faces are blurred, as if someone has gone into my mind and is slowly wiping away my memory of them. I try to call to mind Lydia's voice, the sound of her light laugh, but I hear nothing.

And that is when I realize I have already started to die.


End file.
